I Have Known the Eyes
by phoenixrising934
Summary: Set During HBP: After an inexplicable event in the Room of Requirement, Draco Malfoy finds himself trapped in an alternate universe with the Mudblood and her Gryffindor friends. Eventually, he knows it to be the future - his future. But with only Gryffindors around, will he ever escape this nightmarish version of it? And if he does, will anything ever be the same? Dramione, Hinny.
1. Plans

**Summary: **Set during HBP. Harry is growing additionally more suspicious of Malfoy's behavior, and he enlists Hermione and Ron to help him get to the bottom of the mystery. After an inexplicable event in the Room of Requirement, however, the Hogwarts students find themselves trapped in an alternate universe, one they eventually determine to be the future. _Their_ future. Left to their own devices in a world in which everything seems different, will they ever find an escape? And more importantly - once they do, will anything ever be the same? (Dramione, Hinny, Rovender).

**a/n: **Hiiiii I'm so glad you're here! Just so you know, I'm not J.K. Rowling, which means I own nothing but the plot. I don't even own the title - that belongs to T.S. Eliot, who has a fabulous poem called "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," which you should definitely read after this. Aaaaand last but not least, you should know that this story will contain mature language and themes, and I may have to up the rating later. Okay, so with all of that said, here we go...

* * *

**I HAVE KNOWN THE EYES**

**I**

"**Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides,**

**Who covers faults at last with shame derides."**

—**_King Lear_**

**_October 4, 1996, 8:12 A.M._**

Hermione learned in grade school that stories which begin in autumn nearly always indicate a prior tragedy. At the time, she imagined it was simply her teacher's rationalization for spoiling the ending of _The Great Gatsby _when they'd only just begun reading it, but now, she could see it - the almost imminent disaster in the way the leaves swirled to the ground, leaving black, skeletal branches; the way the wind never blew in one direction; the way the analemma of the sun seemed to split open wide, allowing the celestial body to sway out of its practised cycle.

Shakespeare, too, taught her of the power nature holds in determining - or at least helping us to determine - our destiny. If Julius Caesar had opened his eyes to the omens provided by lightning that lit the Roman sky and thunder that shook the streets, he probably wouldn't have been stabbed.

Or maybe he still would have, but it wouldn't have been thirty-three bloody times.

"Et tu, Brute?" she muttered to herself, raising a brow as Ron took the cinnamon bun she'd already reached out a hand to grab.

"I just know he's planning something. Something bad."

Hermione jumped, her musings broken as Harry spoke. "Malfoy again?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. Malfoy was, after all, the Cassius to Harry's Caesar.

"He's been on about the bloody ferret this entire week," moaned Ron, shovelling a forkful of potatoes into his mouth as he spoke. Hermione winced as pieces escaped through his lips.

"On the contrary, Ronald, he hasn't stopped talking about Malfoy since we saw him at Borgin & Burkes in August," she said, eyeing Harry warily. It was currently the beginning of October, and his fixation on Malfoy was seriously worrying her. Perhaps his theory that Malfoy was up to something had merit, but then again, when _wasn't _Malfoy up to something? In Harry's mind, Malfoy had become less of a nuisance and more of a disease — tainting every thought with dark hunches, erasing any notion of coincidence, and transforming the most insignificant of actions into ones of deep meaning. As if Harry's personal vendetta and endless stream of conspiracies regarding Malfoy weren't bad enough already, he was now attempting to infect Ron with the Slytherin sickness, and Ron, as Hermione well knew, had a weak immune system when it came to the ferret.

"The _he _you speak of is right here," said Harry, his emerald eyes flashing with irritation. "And I'm telling you, there's something suspicious going on with Malfoy. I think he may have—"

"Honestly, enough with the theories! Or anything else about Malfoy for that matter," said Hermione, taking a bite out of a piece of bread smothered in raspberry jam. "If I wanted to discuss a topic that gave me trouble digesting, I would suggest Dean and Ginny's inability to stop snogging for longer than five minutes."

Both Harry and Ron squirmed in discomfort as Hermione continued chewing, her expression innocuous.

"Are you trying to make _me _lose my appetite?" asked Ron, his blue eyes wide and his mouth twisted into a grimace.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware it was possible," teased Hermione with a smile.

"She has a point, mate," Harry said, chuckling lightly at Ron's expense.

"Well, I s'pose she does." Ron looked somewhat sheepish, but the comment didn't prevent him from resuming the demolition of his breakfast. He finished the potatoes and moved on to the eggs, and in that moment, Hermione was quite grateful she wasn't sitting directly across from him. Chunks of scrambled eggs began flying in every direction.

"It's just that," started Harry, visibly struggling to avoid bringing the Slytherin up again. He ran a hand through his dishevelled dark hair, causing it to stick up even more than usual, and sighed deeply.

Hermione narrowed her eyes but said nothing; Ron simply shrugged as if to give Harry the go-ahead.

"I think he's taken the Mark," Harry whispered, glancing quickly to his left and right in order to ensure that no one had overheard his theory.

"What?" exclaimed Hermione. Yes, Malfoy was an insufferable prat, but a Death Eater? She didn't see how it was plausible, considering the extent of the previous year's catastrophe in the Department of Mysteries. Lucius had been captured and was presently rotting in Azkaban. She'd presumed that in the absence of his father, the younger Malfoy could claw his way out of the depths of the pit of immorality, a pit his father seemed to have worked tirelessly to shove him into. And because Hermione was admittedly idealistic at heart, even when it came to those she couldn't stand, Malfoy being a Death Eater was not something she wanted to consider. "Harry, you can't be—"

"—Serious? I am, Hermione, and I really think that's what's going on. The conversation from the train, the way he's been acting; it all points to it!" Harry threw up his hands for added emphasis, and Hermione's orange juice nearly toppled over.

"Harry," she sighed, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Just try and give this Malfoy thing a rest for a while, alright?"

"Don't you think I've been bloody trying?" asked Harry, exasperation in his tone. "It's just that Malfoy—"

"Gossiping about me again, are you Potter?" a snide voice cut in. "I understand why all of you Gryffindors are obsessed with me, but it's becoming a bit unhealthy, don't you think?"

The trio of Gryffindors looked up to see the disdainful blond in question eyeing them with cold malice and the slightest hint of amusement.

"Yes, well, we heard a rumour you and Parkinson are back together," said Hermione, her voice frigid. "I would say congratulations, but it's not as if she's a catch."

It was true; she _had _heard Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil discussing Malfoy's relationship status the night before as she dressed for bed. It was with mournful sighs and longing looks that the other girls determined that Malfoy was once again with Parkinson. Parvati acted particularly distraught, and Hermione nearly let out a laugh imagining the girl scratching "Mrs. Parvati Malfoy" into her diary with a quill.

Which wasn't to say Lavender had lost her title as Gryffindor's resident trollop.

The way she'd drooled over Parvati's detailed description of Malfoy's newest luxurious robes was more than enough to squash any arguments to the contrary. The tittering over the Slytherin's "gorgeous body," "silky hair," and "mountains of money" had lasted so long, Hermione had been forced to cast a silencing charm around her bed.

"You're one to talk, Granger," said Malfoy, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and sneering at the brunette witch in a way that could make poor Neville wet his trousers. He fixed his silver gaze on her and appeared to infuse all the scorn he could into the glare. "You can't even get a moron like Weaselbee to notice you and your pathetic infatuation."

"What did you call me?" Ron asked distractedly, still chewing his eggs, as Hermione's cheeks burned.

"Disgusting," Malfoy hissed, upon seeing Ron's lack of table manners. Hermione thought it was most likely the only thing she and Malfoy would ever agree on. "I've always known you Weasleys to be uncivilized, but this—"

"Malfoy, would you just leave already?" said Hermione. For one thing, she was not in the mood to fight with Malfoy; it was exhausting to keep up the argument. For another, she was seriously concerned that Harry was going to yank Malfoy's shirt sleeve up to his elbow in order to inspect the skin underneath it. He appeared to be salivating at the mere idea of determining whether or not a Dark Mark had indeed marred its surface.

"Now why would I do that, Granger, when the fun's just starting?" he asked, smirking derisively.

Before Hermione could respond, a familiar, nasally voice broke into the conversation.

"Drake! Come on, you promised we could take a walk outside," said Pansy Parkinson, shooting him a saccharine simper and looping an arm through his. "These bollock-brains aren't worth our time," she concluded with a sniff.

Hermione could have sworn she saw Malfoy roll his eyes at Pansy's words, but she was far from surprised. It was no secret that Malfoy had visited a number of different girls' beds at Hogwarts, discreetly of course, yet somehow rumours of his sordid, midnight trysts always seemed to get out. She sometimes wondered whether he spread them himself. Anyhow, she supposed that he was with Pansy simply for _that _kind of benefit; Hermione couldn't wrap her head around the idea of anyone wanting to date Pansy for her personality. Even so, she felt an unwonted pang of sympathy for the Slytherin witch. She couldn't begin to imagine harbouring affectionate feelings for the ferret, but she knew without having experienced it that it could not be an easy or pleasant thing in the slightest, especially when he barely gave Pansy the time of day, let alone returned her sentiments.

"Must we, Pansy? I'm not feeling particularly well," said Malfoy, rubbing his chest and giving a theatrical cough for added effect. "I also distinctly remember telling you that I despise the nickname 'Drake'," he added under his breath.

"Are you getting sick?" Pansy gasped, maintaining her iron grip on his arm whilst tugging him along and fretting over him as if he were a child. "I'll get one of the house elves to send up some soup and tuck you into bed, and then..."

Pansy's voice gradually faded away, and she and Malfoy departed, Pansy looking additionally distressed over Malfoy's health and Malfoy additionally _alarmed_ at the idea of Pansy playing nurse.

"Well that escape route certainly didn't work out for him," Hermione said, chuckling and imagining the kind of torture Pansy would soon be inflicting on the blond.

"Serves him right, the git," said Ron. "Pansy may be a daft cow, but it doesn't excuse Malfoy acting like _that_."

"Harry?" asked Hermione, concerned when Harry refrained from joining in on the Malfoy-bashing, ordinarily one of his favourite pastimes.

"Sorry, I was just..." Harry trailed off, his green eyes remaining unfocused. Hermione had a feeling she wouldn't like the direction his brain was going, but she was most likely powerless to change its course. Harry had developed a talent for getting her mixed up in things she had no business getting mixed up in.

"Just what?" she prompted, drumming her fingers impatiently on the table.

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," he said, looking to Ron and Hermione for support. "I'd like your help, but if you don't want to—"

"Are you kidding?" interrupted Ron, grinning. "A chance to wipe Malfoy's sodding smirk off his face? I'm in."

"What about you, Hermione?" Harry asked, after returning Ron's excited smile. Hermione realized she had absolutely no choice in the matter. While she couldn't bring herself to stamp out the light in Harry's eyes, further deciding her decision was the knowledge that Harry and Ron were bound to be reckless in their plans if she wasn't there to help.

That is, if they were even able to come up with a plan in the first place.

"Fine," she sighed. "I'm in too."

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

**_11 P.M._**

Very late that evening, Hermione, Harry, and Ron huddled around the Marauder's Map in the Gryffindor common room, attempting to locate the footsteps of a certain Slytherin.

"I know he's about somewhere," Hermione insisted. "It's his turn to patrol the corridors. Prefects can't slack on their duties!"

"Maybe not you," said Ron. "The rest of us..."

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione jostled him with her elbow and applied her best disapproving stare.

"Come on, Hermione, it was a joke! Merlin, you look like my mum," he cried, and, well, she wasn't exactly disappointed by the comparison - at least Ron listened to his mum.

Hermione didn't like anyone skipping out on patrol; not only did it go against the tacit expectations of prefects, but also, it potentially placed people in danger. Prefects were on watch for a reason, after all.

"Well, if you stick to your job, I won't have any reason to again," she said warningly, returning her eyes to the old, yellowed parchment on which the magic map was drawn. Its charmed capabilities never ceased to amaze her, despite her reservations about its uses - well, _Harry's _uses.

"Found him!" Harry exclaimed, pointing to a set of tiny feet labelled "Draco Malfoy."

"You did? Where?" Ron brought his face so close to the page that Hermione's vision was blocked entirely. She rolled her eyes at Ron's usual abandonment of observation skills.

"Sixth floor," answered Harry, "but he's on the move."

"Sixth floor?" Hermione parroted. "No, no, no, he's _supposed _to be on the _third _floor! Stupid ferret," she whined indignantly. "He's messing up my schedule! I worked on it for weeks!"

"Don't you get what this means, Hermione?" asked Harry, his expression triumphant. "Malfoy is sneaking off somewhere he's not supposed to!" Harry snatched his invisibility cloak from the chair on which it had been resting and swung it over his shoulders.

"He's on the seventh floor now," said Ron, still transfixed on the map. "Wait, no, he's...he's gone."

"How is he gone? That's not possible."

"Ron's right," confirmed Hermione. "He just disappeared." She bit her lip, wondering how this new development was, in fact, possible. In all the years Harry had possessed the map, never once had he mentioned anyone simply vanishing.

"Crabbe and Goyle just reached the seventh floor," said Harry. "Let's see if they disappear too."

The three Gryffindors watched noiselessly for a few minutes, but Crabbe and Goyle hardly moved; the pair made a few steps here and there but did nothing to suggest they were planning on leaving the seventh floor in the near future.

"We have to go up there," Harry said firmly, keeping his eyes locked on the small footsteps drifting across the parchment as if he feared Crabbe and Goyle would soon pull a vanishing act like their blond leader. Harry's jaw was set, and Hermione realized arguing was futile. She wasn't prepared to fight a losing battle and could only do her best to make sure they weren't caught.

"Ron and I are prefects, so that will excuse us from getting in trouble if we're seen. You, on the other hand, better stay under that cloak. I don't care if Malfoy shows up with a Death Eater flanking either side of him. Do you hear me, Harry Potter?"

"I hear you, Hermione," Harry said, smiling slightly in spite of Hermione's bossy attitude.

"Alright, then. Let's go before I change my mind."

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

**_11:19 P.M._**

"What the—?"

"Shh," Hermione scolded, elbowing Ron in the side.

"Merlin, woman, why do you insist on hitting me all the time?"

"Because you never shut up!" she hissed, placing a finger on her lips to indicate a request for quiet. "And don't call me 'woman' ever again!"

They couldn't very well inspect what Crabbe and Goyle were doing if Ron immediately gave away their presence. She could only assume that Ron had been about to question the strange appearance of two little girls, probably first or second years, standing around the seventh corridor and looking a bit dazed. One held a stack of cookies in her hands; the other was gripping her wand tightly. Hermione suddenly felt an invisible force pull her back and knew that Harry had something he needed to say. When they were safely behind a wall and out of sight of the girls, Harry took off the cloak and showed his friends the map.

"Look here," he said, reminding them of the location of Crabbe and Goyle's footprints.

"Yes, we get it, dumb and dumber are up here," said Ron as if it were obvious. "That's why we're out of bed and strolling along the seventh corridor."

"No, don't you see?" Harry shook his head. "They're in the exact spot—"

"—Where those little girls' footprints should be," gasped Hermione, her caramel eyes widening in realization. "Those aren't girls! They're Crabbe and Goyle."

"Bloody hell," said Ron, scratching his head. "That's a disturbing thought. Crabbe and Goyle, wearing skirts." He gagged, and Hermione might have laughed had it not been for the increased speed with which her mind was racing.

"If Crabbe and Goyle are using polyjuice potion to guard the seventh floor, then Malfoy must be here somewhere," she muttered, more to herself than Harry or Ron.

"But, Hermione, the map doesn't—"

"I know, Harry, the map doesn't lie," she said, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. She nibbled on her lower lip as she continued to think, attempting to come up with an explanation to satisfy the enigma that was Draco Malfoy at the moment. "Seventh floor, seventh floor...What's on the seventh floor?" She snapped her head up to look at her bewildered companions.

"Well, there's the Room of Requirement," Harry offered. "But I don't see how—"

"That's brilliant!" Hermione nearly shouted until she remembered to keep her voice down. Crabbe and Goyle weren't the most perceptive boys, but Hermione shied from taking any unnecessary risks. "The Room of Requirement is known as the place where everything is hidden, _and _it transforms itself to become the place you need it to be," she explained to Harry and Ron, who were dressed in countenances somewhere between trepidation and excitement. "So wouldn't it make sense for it to hide Malfoy if that's what he needs it to do?"

"Hermione, you're a genius!" Harry engulfed his friend in a hug. "Now we just have to figure out _how _to get in."

"Malfoy and the other gits working for Umbridge weren't able to reach our DA meetings even though they knew about them," Ron said with a frown. "Only after Chang spilled her guts were they actually able to get in."

"But they got close, remember? The door would disappear on them. If we could just get there before Crabbe and Goyle and—"

"—Use the door before it disappears, we'd be in," concluded Harry. "But seeing as Malfoy's already in the room tonight, we won't get the chance."

"Tomorrow then?" asked Hermione.

"Tomorrow," confirmed Harry with a nod.

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

**_October 6, 1996, 10:44 P.M._**

As it happened, Malfoy didn't go to the seventh floor at all the next day, nor did he reach it the day after that. Hermione could tell Harry's impatience was swelling and about to burst, and try as she might to stop it, her patience was beginning to wane as well. Inquisitiveness was one of her dominant traits, and whatever Malfoy was doing in the Room of Requirement certainly stirred her ingrained curiosity.

While some still saw her intrusive nature as annoying, the majority of people no longer minded it; in fact, they had come to expect Hermione's myriad of questions and understood that she wasn't _trying _to be nosy. It was just _Hermione_. And therefore in the two days of waiting for action, no one noticed that Hermione seemed to ask a lot of questions about Slytherins - Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in particular. Harry and Ron, however, could tell that the Malfoy mystery was eating away at her and eagerly soaked in any information she managed to gather, which, if she was being honest, was next to nothing.

"Bugger," Harry muttered on the third night of non-action on Malfoy's part. "Why isn't he doing anything? Why isn't he going back up there?"

Neither Hermione nor Ron had an answer for him.

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

**_October 8, 1996, 10:55 P.M._**

On the fifth day, the Gryffindors finally got what they were waiting for. Malfoy was heading up the fifth corridor on his way to the Room of Requirement. Harry, Ron, and Hermione raced out of bed, Harry in the cloak and Hermione and Ron in their prefect robes.

By the time they reached the seventh floor, all three were panting, and Hermione knew she had sweat dripping down her brow. She and Ron decided to let Harry try to get in first, seeing as he was invisible and wouldn't alert Malfoy that anything was amiss. He cast a hurried "Muffliato" on his shoes and took off in a sprint as he spotted Malfoy heading for a door that had just emerged from the wall. Malfoy entered the room quickly after a nervous glance around the seemingly empty corridor, and though Harry attempted to run in right after him, the door disappeared with even greater speed than it had formed. Hermione listened as Harry's laboured breaths returned, and she braced herself for the inexorable rant that would follow the failed mission.

"Dammit! I don't understand. I was right on his tail!" Harry said, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. In a fit of apoplectic annoyance, he attempted to stomp his foot, and Hermione had to choke back a laugh when it didn't make a sound.

"Not sure what to tell you, mate," Ron said, his expression sympathetic. "You're the one who turned it into the DA room for us last year. We don't know any more than you do."

He was right, of course, which frustrated Hermione to no end. There had to be a way to get in and discover what Malfoy was doing, because otherwise she was going to end up pulling out her frizzy hair and wailing like the mad banshee she was turning into. And, as usual, it would be all Malfoy's fault.

* * *

**a/n: **Hope it was okay! I promise the action will continue to grow with the story, especially after the time travel occurs. I'm really excited about it, and I hope you are too! I've only seen a couple of "traveling to the future" stories on FF, and none of them have been what I was looking for... which meant I had to write one myself ;) Special thanks to Beth (aka RainThestral93) for the beta!

Read and review please!


	2. Fantasies

**II**

"**Lovers and madmen have such seething brains**

**Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend**

**More than cool reason ever comprehends."**

—**_A Midsummer Night's Dream_**

_October 9, 1996, 10:52 A.M._

"I don't know how much longer I can take this," complained Harry as he, Ron, and Hermione made their way to Potions, where Harry, much to Hermione's chagrin, had cemented his place at the top of the class. The other day, Professor Slughorn had been practically giddy after Harry's success in making a perfect fire protection potion. His eyes lit up in glee when Harry held his hand in the flame of a candle for three minutes without getting burned. It was completely due to that bloody book of Harry's; Hermione's hair nearly crackled in electric irascibility whenever he praised it. It was _cheating_, and though Hermione had been forced to relax a bit about the rules over the years of friendship with Harry and Ron, this grated on her sense of probity in an entirely different way. The use of the book was _inexcusable_, especially when it resulted in Harry receiving a precious vial of Felix Felicis. The molten gold liquid was known to be dangerous when one overindulged in its contents, but Hermione couldn't deny that she had desired the chance to experience the heightened confidence and sense of opportunity the potion provided.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Potty Potions and his pathetic posse."

"Malfoy," growled Harry in acknowledgement, placing a hand on his wand instinctively as they approached Slughorn's door.

"Nothing else to say? My, Potter, you're not going soft on me, are you?" asked Malfoy, raising his blond brows in question.

"Just not in the mood to deal with a pompous prat today, I suppose," said Harry, shoving past Malfoy and entering the Potions classroom as Hermione and Ron trailed behind him.

Just as the trio reached the centre of the room, Professor Slughorn raised the lid off a bubbling cauldron. Everyone collectively stepped closer, attempting to peer into its contents, and was soon hit with scents so appealing, the steps quickened and lengthened in less than a second.

"Whoa, there," Professor Slughorn said with a chuckle, cutting off the advancement of his students. "I don't want anyone getting too close. Now, can anyone tell me what type of potion this is?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air. She heard Malfoy snicker but ignored him, only raising it higher.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"That would be Amortentia, Professor," she said, her voice clear and crisp. "The most powerful love potion in the world. Recognizable by its pearl-like sheen and the distinctive shapes of its steam, Amortentia is known to smell differently to everyone based on what attracts them. For example," she continued, taking another step forward and inhaling the rising puffs of steam given off by the potion, "I smell...freshly mown grass, new parchment, and green...apples." She could already feel the potion beginning to cloud her thoughts and quickly cleared her throat, returning to her place beside Harry.

"Excellent work, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor," said Slughorn, granting her an approving nod. "Now, as you probably know, it is impossible to manufacture love by use of a potion, so can anyone tell me how the recipient will feel about their newfound object of affection?"

Hermione's hand again flew up. No one else's did, and Slughorn indicated she could go ahead.

"Well, as you said, he or she won't truly love the other person, but a deep obsession or infatuation will occur, and this could be misinterpreted as love by the drinker of the potion," she said, glad she had made the effort to read ahead on what they would be covering in class.

"Correct! Another ten points to Gryffindor. Now," Slughorn said, rubbing his hands together in excitement. "Today, we'll be brewing the Draught of Living Death, which will, if done correctly, appear as misleadingly innocent as pure water..."

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

_October 11, 1996, 9:06 P.M._

"How was Divination?" Hermione asked Harry and Ron, not particularly caring, but if it would help keep Harry's mind off Malfoy, it would be good for all of them.

"Well, other than Trelawney's mad as a box of frogs, not bad," said Ron, chewing one of Fred and George's trickster treats.

"What does that do, Ron?" Hermione asked cautiously, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. As humorous as the Weasley twins' antics could be, occasionally they caused Hermione more anxiety than amusement.

"What?" he asked, not understanding until she pointed at the other candies in his hand. "Oh, they make me an excellent opera singer when I feel like it." At Hermione and Harry's pointed silence, he babbled on. "I just eat them for the taste though. Obviously."

"I don't know, Ron," said Harry, smirking mischievously, "I seem to recall you serving up a lovely rendition of a Celestina Warbeck song the other night. 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,' was it?"

Ron's ears instantly turned tomato red, and Hermione and Harry burst out laughing.

"That was private!" Ron moaned, his freckles popping in the dim lit corridor. "I thought no one was in there! It was the prefect's bathroom."

"What's the use in having an invisibility cloak if I don't take advantage of it every now and then?" asked Harry, residual laughter in his voice. "The prefects have the nicest bathroom," he added with a shrug at Hermione's questioning glare.

"How did I wind up with the two of you?" she asked good-naturedly, throwing her arms around Harry and Ron. "The opera singer and the invisible delinquent..."

"We saved you from a troll," answered Harry frankly, "and it all went downhill from there." Hermione laughed again, grateful to have best friends like Harry and Ron, even if they seemed to have a proclivity toward mischief.

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

_October 13, 1996, 8:47 P.M._

"Maybe if we just walked around a bit and asked the room to turn into what it does for Malfoy," suggested Harry for perhaps the hundredth time.

"We've already tried that," sighed Hermione patiently, not appreciating the crazed look she was seeing in Harry's eyes. "A few times, actually." Their plan to figure out Malfoy's secret was going nowhere; he had returned to the room only once more, the previous night to be exact, and Harry had again failed to enter the Room of Requirement behind him. Since they had no idea what he used it for, the room did nothing when they paced back and forth outside of it, and wishing to see what Malfoy saw wasn't enough.

"Well, I'm going up there again."

"Mate, I know you're set on finding out what the slimy ferret is up to, but we've had no luck, and I don't see any point—"

"That's it!" exclaimed Harry, pumping a fist in the air. "I need _luck_!"

"Are you sure you want to use it on this?" asked Hermione, knowing what Harry was referring to as soon as he said it. The Felix Felicis was tucked away somewhere safe, she was sure, and she didn't know if this warranted removal from its haven.

"I only need a sip," argued Harry. "I'll save the rest of it." At Hermione's sceptical expression, Harry went on. "Look, Ron's right. Lady Luck has been shitting on us for nearly a fortnight, and it's not going to stop unless we do something about it. Taking the Felix Felicis is something, a _big_something."

"I...I can see your point," Hermione conceded hesitantly. "Just don't get your hopes too high, okay?"

"Sure, sure," said Harry lazily, visibly ignoring Hermione as his wide grin began to match the insanity of his eyes. He raced up to his room, where the liquid gold, he later revealed, was residing in a charcoal sock.

"How do you feel?" asked Hermione as soon as Harry returned to the common room, a smug smile on his face. She tried not to infuse any bitterness into her voice, but _Merlin_ if that old potions book of his didn't make her mental.

"Brilliant. Fucking _brilliant_," he said confidently, grabbing his cloak and map. "I think I fancy a visit to the Divination Tower, actually. I just have this inexplicable need to head over there. Coming?"

"Wait the — Harry, why would you go to the Divination Tower? I thought we were going to the Room of Requirement," a nonplussed Hermione said, furrowing her brows.

"The man's got Felix on his side," said Ron as if it were explanation enough. He shrugged in amusement. "Now, personally I don't think we should doubt the master of luck, do you?"

"Whatever," muttered Hermione. She followed the two boys nonetheless.

When the trio reached the top of the Divination Tower, Harry knocked on the door without a second thought.

"Just — just a moment!" Professor Trelawney's dreamy voice floated through the door, and Hermione scowled when she realized she would have to endure the batty woman's presence as "Felix" did his work. She'd hoped that by dropping Divination third year, she would no longer have to endure the bizarre witch, but she'd managed to cross paths with her a few times in the ensuing years. "Ah, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger," she said, greeting each in turn. "What brings you to my door this evening?"

"Mind if we come in?" Harry asked, flashing a dazzling smile.

"Not at all, my dear. Come along, come along," she said, adjusting her thick glasses and opening the door wide enough for them to enter. She took a seat on a velvet settee and poured herself a drink, smiling in satisfaction after taking a sip. After a covert glance at the bottle, Hermione recognized that it was sherry, and, judging by the low level of alcohol left in the bottom, Professor Trelawney was not on her first glass of the night.

"Is that Amontillado?" Hermione asked, nodding toward the bottle. She remembered going to a vineyard with her parents years ago, and since she couldn't drink the wine at the various tastings they dragged her to, she instead focused on absorbing as much information as the vineyard owner could give on the types of wines.

"Why, yes," said Trelawney, her eyes languid and glassy as she turned to Hermione. "How did you know? You're not hiding it in the castle too, are you?" she laughed breathily before it turned into a sort of hiccupping noise.

"No," Hermione said slowly, put off by the professor's stranger than usual behaviour.

"Professors hide alcohol? Wicked," said Ron, relaxing into a chair and crossing his arms. "You're way cooler than I thought."

"Yes, well." Trelawney blushed, looking a bit flustered at Ron's compliment. She wrapped her arms around herself, her gauzy, lilac scarf overwhelming her spindly limbs. "It's technically against the rules, but I was walking through a corridor with an empty bottle in my bag, and very mysteriously, this room appeared—"

"On the seventh floor?" asked Harry, leaning forward eagerly. Hermione felt her heart accelerate as she imagined unlocking the secret to Malfoy's surreptitious behaviour.

Perhaps Felix _did_ know what he was doing.

"Yes, yes, you know of it?" Professor Trelawney queried, tilting her head to the side. "No matter," she said, not waiting for a response. "The point is, I found this wondrous hiding place for the bottle. The room was full of all sorts of amazing things! I thought I was the only one to know about it, but now you have told me you know of its existence, and last night, well—" she stopped suddenly, a slight quake to her shoulders. The professor's reticence lingered as she lifted her glass and downed the last of her sherry.

"What happened last night, Professor?" pushed Harry.

"I was going to hide an empty bottle of vintage," she said, her eyes the size of saucers. "It was excellent by the way, a 1974, but anyhow, I heard someone curse, and when I searched to see who it was, Instant Darkness Powder was thrown in my direction! I'm sure you can imagine my surprise; it was a wonder I managed to find my way out in the pitch black!"

"This person, did they sound like a girl or boy?"

"Boy," she said, nodding to herself. "Yes, most certainly a boy. He sounded very angry; I can only assume it was in part due to the strange outbreak of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks we've been undergoing recently. Did you know they encourage feelings of frustration and negativity? Luna Lovegood, what a fascinating girl, was telling me all about it—"

"Professor." Harry interrupted her nonsensical ramblings. "Can you describe the room where you hide your empty bottles?"

"Hm." Trelawney stroked her chin thoughtfully and knit her eyebrows together. "It was very large. I have never seen the whole thing. There were countless shelves and stacks of treasures there — furniture, thousands of books, jewellery, even Fanged Frisbees!"

"Excellent, thank you, Professor Trelawney," said Harry, standing up and gesturing to Hermione and Ron to do the same. "See you in class!"

"Yes, have a nice night, my boy!" she yelled after him. "Watch out for Snorkacks!"

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

_10:48 P.M._

"This is it. Malfoy's on the move," said Harry, slipping under his cloak. "You know what to do?"

"I catch Crabbe and Goyle out of bed," Hermione answered, going through the plan step by step as she and the boys made their way to the seventh floor corridor. "Then I offer them spiked cookies, which will knock them out for a few hours. After that, you and Ron will join me, and we'll go in together."

"Because we have to hide Ginny's diary," said Ron, lifting a thin pink book in victory. "I got it out of—"

"What?" exclaimed Hermione, utterly appalled. "I never agreed to that, Ronald! You can't just take a girl's journal! If she finds out, and she—"

"—one who knows where it is, so after I walk in the corridor—"

"—going to hex you! Bat Bogey most likely, which won't bode well for you, and—"

"—have to appear! And then I'll just—"

"—can't believe you! It's a complete invasion of personal privacy, and you—"

"HERMIONE!" shouted Ron. "That's the point! She's going to know I took it; I'm the only one who knows she likes to hide things in the bottom of her boots. I _have_to have a good hiding place for it, or she'll hex my balls off!"

"Oh, Ron, that's — that's very clever of you, actually," said Hermione, squinting at Ron contemplatively with something akin to pride.

"It is known to happen every once in a while," he said crossly, his ears pink.

"Come on then, you two! I just saw Malfoy go in!" Harry said. Though Hermione couldn't actually see him, she _could_ see the air practically vibrating in excitement.

Hermione walked over to where Crabbe and Goyle, disguised as young girls of course, were standing guard outside of the room.

"Hello," she said, attempting to sound kind and reassuring. "What are you _girls_doing out of your common room at this hour?"

Crabbe and Goyle eyed each other with what could only be described as panic. One of them, Hermione had no idea which, dropped a pile of books to the floor, and it echoed with a bang throughout the corridor.

"There's no need to be frightened," Hermione said soothingly. "I'm not going to punish you. In fact," she continued, pulling the fresh chocolate-chip cookies out of her bag, "How would you like a cookie to eat on your way back?"

The duo remained silent but two sets of hands reached for a cookie, and Hermione smirked in satisfaction as Crabbe and Goyle both eagerly wolfed down the desserts. Seconds later, they collapsed on the floor, and Harry and Ron ran over to drag the unconscious Slytherins into a dark corner. Hopefully, it would be enough to keep them concealed. Harry, Ron, and Hermione then began to walk back and forth past the Room of Requirement, imagining the place Trelawney had told them about and thinking of Ron's need to hide Ginny's diary.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" The three turned to see a fiery redhead striding toward them with fury painted in the flush on her cheeks. "_Where is it_?"

"Where's what?" Ron asked innocently, his lethargic stroll transforming into a panic-ridden pace.

"I'm going to kill you, you arse-hole! Tell me where it is, _now!_" Ginny screamed, coming closer and closer to her brother, her wand drawn. Ron seemed to be expecting an _Avada_ when the door to the Room of Requirement came to his rescue. He raced inside, followed closely by Harry, Hermione, and unfortunately for Ron, Ginny.

"Here, take the thing; I don't want it!" He threw the diary at her as if it were infected with a contagious disease.

"Well then why the hell did you steal it?" she shouted, her hands on her hips.

"For this," said Harry in awe, spinning to see every part of the room. Hermione was similarly hypnotized by their surroundings; the room was truly something to admire. Trelawney had been right — there were thousands upon thousands of books, and Hermione wondered how long it would take to go through them. She was sure many of them were fascinating; why else would they be hidden if not for their secrets? She spotted a book entitled _Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires_next to a house of Exploding Snap cards but held herself back from going over to inspect it further.

Ginny's anger visibly dissipated as she, too, took in the room. "Wow," she breathed, the sound coming out in a whoosh of air.

"I _have_to find one of those Fanged Frisbees," Ron declared, eyes darting around for the lime green, snarling toys.

"Our priority is finding Malfoy," said Harry. "We can explore later."

"Why would you want to find Malfoy?" asked Ginny, who, Hermione realized with an internal groan, had no idea what was going on and would demand an explanation. Ginny's determination and persistence were two of the qualities Hermione admired most in her, but they could be trouble in circumstances like these. She understood though; growing up the youngest of seven with only brothers for company must have been a significant factor, if not the only factor, in the development of those characteristics as well as Ginny's hatred of being left out. "Is anyone going to answer, or am I going to have to keep pestering you?"

Hermione sighed and gave Ginny a brief overview of the past ten days of plotting against Malfoy. As soon as she finished, Harry placed an arm in front of her, blocking her passage.

"There he is," he whispered, pointing at the blond, who was concentrating so resolutely that he hadn't noticed them. He was studying some kind of cabinet, grand in size, ebony in colour, and ensconced in a particularly disorderly section of the room. The cabinet's hinges creaked in protest as Malfoy opened and pulled from it a single apple that, from Hermione's viewpoint, was missing a chunk in its side.

"What the hell?" muttered Ron, thoroughly baffled. "What's he doing, hiding snacks?"

"No idea," answered Harry, "but I'm going over there." The invisibility cloak firmly in place, Harry snuck over to where Malfoy was still examining the apple with concerted effort.

"Fucking hell!" Malfoy burst out abruptly, throwing the apple to the floor. He started to storm in the direction of Hermione and the two Weasleys, his shoulders hunched in defeat. Hermione frantically tried to motion for them to run, but it was too late. They were caught. "Well, isn't this a bloody surprise? Gryffindors sticking their fat noses where they don't belong!" he yelled, his voice higher than normal and approaching a raspy screech. "You can come out now, Pothead; I know you're in here somewhere!"

"Malfoy, we were just—"

"Spying on me? Don't act all innocent, Granger; I'm not daft. You lot have been stalking me for a week," he said, his face pallid and gaunt. Hermione didn't know how she hadn't noticed it before. His face was always pale and thin, and his features had distinguishingly sharp angles, but he looked almost... unhealthy. His eyes, the colour of storm clouds over an ocean, were shadowed by circles so dark they could have been mistaken for bruises.

"Longer than a week, actually," amended Ron. He received a blow on each arm for his idiotic comment. "Ow! It's not like it matters if he knows now!"

"Why have you been following me?" asked Malfoy, addressing the now-visible Harry.

"We know you're up to something," Harry said candidly. "We want to know what."

"Well, as much as I hate to disappoint the Chosen One, I'm not up to anything." Malfoy folded his arms and made for the door. "And now I'm leaving. I don't have time for a bullshit interrogation."

"And where do you think you're going, Malfoy?" asked Harry, who had extracted his wand. Ron followed his action and pointed in the blonde's direction. "We're going to get answers."

"Or what?" Malfoy sneered. "The Weasel will make himself puke slugs? Oh wait, he _already did that!_"

"Actually, I was thinking I'd make you shit baby ferrets. Seems appropriate," said Ron, staring Malfoy down with equal loathing.

"Everyone, just stop!" Hermione yelled, getting in the middle of the conflicting sides. She wasn't exactly opposed to seeing Malfoy writhing in disgust and pain, but then again, it was answers they were after, and that wasn't the way to go about getting them. "Casting unpractised spells at each other will get us nowhere."

"It's a sad day for Gryffindor when its most intelligent member is a Mudblood," Malfoy said, leering at Hermione and dusting off the shoulders of his robes as if worried her proximity would infect them. Hermione grimaced. So much for gaining redemption during his father's absence. "Now, if you'll either sod off or let me leave—"

"Oh, you can leave," said Hermione coolly. At Malfoy's baffled expression, she added, "But we'll be coming with you."

"Fantastic. And how long exactly will I have to endure you pillocks?"

Harry took another step toward Malfoy. "Until you spill your guts or—"

"—or we hex them out of you," finished Ron, waving his wand like a madman.

"There will be no hexing out of guts, Ronald," said Hermione, coming up behind Malfoy with Harry and Ginny beside her. "Now get your head out of your behind, and let's go."

The group exited the Room of Requirement, and Hermione thought to mention Crabbe and Goyle to Malfoy. The Slytherin was already quite angry, and she figured having him find out down the line would prove much worse than just coming clean and enduring the coalescing of all of his fury now.

"Malfoy, you should probably see—" she abruptly cut off. She was where Crabbe and Goyle were supposed to be, the exact place Harry and Ron had taken them, but they were gone. She hadn't been in the Room of Requirement that long; there was no way they could have woken up already. So where were they? Had someone else found and moved them? "I don't understand," she murmured, knotting her hair as her hands dragged through it.

"Let's just go," said Harry knowingly, in a voice only she could hear. "Don't worry about it now." She nodded, repeating Harry's _don't worry about it now_ in her head, and returned her gaze to the fuming blond.

"Where, pray tell, are you taking me?" asked Malfoy crossly, and understandably so. Hermione could admit it to herself — she knew that she would feel far from comfortable if the situation were reversed and she were stuck with a pack of Slytherins on an otherwise deserted seventh floor. And when Malfoy found out where they were taking him, he would probably be further enraged.

With a deep sigh, Hermione answered. "Gryffindor common room."

"Are you completely off your bloody rocker? Do you _want_someone to murder me?"

"I wouldn't be opposed," said Ron under his breath. Hermione thanked Merlin that Malfoy didn't hear him.

"No one's going to murder you if you're with us," she pointed out logically. Well, at least she hoped no one would until she had pulled the information she wanted out of him.

The group walked mostly in a silence, broken up only by Malfoy's staccato, petulant grunts of annoyance. When the Fat Lady came into view, Hermione whispered the password — "_Audentia_" — so as not to allow Malfoy to overhear. A Slytherin having the ability to sneak into Gryffindor tower could only bring trouble.

"That is incorrect."

The Fat Lady didn't bother lifting one of her sagging eyelids. The folds of her pink satin-covered flesh rippled with her heavy breaths, the residual traces of snoring apparent in their harshness.

"What do you mean, incorrect?" asked Harry. "Was the password changed recently?"

Waves of pink swelled and ebbed through her midsection as she answered. "Earlier today. And now you're here when the Gryffindors that know it are asleep..." A yawn, then a sigh. "Very inconvenient."

"We didn't know the password was going to be changed. Could you just—"

"Yes, yes, alright. _Dum sprio, spero."_The portrait swung open, and Hermione frowned at the thought that she, as a Gryffindor prefect, had not been informed of the altered password. Someone would be getting verbally reprimanded for the oversight; that much was obvious.

She stopped her inner ramblings as the distinct hiss and pops of a fire hit her ears.

"Hermione—"

"I know," she whispered. There were people in the common room.

Hermione could discern at least two sources of laughter, and she cast a silent prayer that whoever they were, they wouldn't start shooting spells at Malfoy as soon as they saw him. When she, Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Malfoy fully entered the room, she let out a breath of relief. The three wizards had their backs to the doorway; they were facing the roaring fire and playing a game of wizard's chess.

"Alright, James, your go," said one of the boys.

"I'm going to kick your arse for that last move, Hugo." Hermione assumed that the boy responding was James, and she drew her eyebrows together in confusion.

"Who the fuck are James and Hugo?" asked Malfoy, voicing the question in Hermione's head. "I'm almost positive I've docked points from every first, second, _and_third year in Gryffindor, so—"

"I knew there was a reason our points were so low this year! I should have suspected—"

"I can't comprehend why you're known for your intelligence. I presumed it was obvious—"

"—thought even _you_could treat the post honestly—"

"—not Saint Granger, who dies of indignation if anyone dares to break—"

"—complete prat! Slytherin through and through, and you—"

"—except Potter and Weasley, who are given get out of Azkaban free cards—"

"Oh, enough of this! Excuse me?" said Hermione, prepared to use her prefect status in order to discover the identities of the boys. Malfoy continued to scowl, his arms folded against his chest, but stayed quiet. "James, Hugo? Is there a reason you're not in bed?"

"Oh that's brilliant, Granger, they're really going to want to go to bed with you acting like their sodding mother."

"Well, by all means, _Malfoy_, show off the authority skills you only use to terrorize people with, _not_for any _actual_prefect duties—"

"Those are one in the same," he said with a self-satisfied smirk. "Now, you twats, if you don't want me to knock your precious house out of the House Cup race, you'll... They're not bloody listening! Pay attention!"

James, Hugo, and the third boy didn't even look up from their game of chess and continued playing as if there was no one else in the room.

"Pay attention!" Malfoy repeated.

Silence.

"It's like they can't even hear or see you," whispered Hermione. Ice was slicing a frozen path through her blood on its way to her heart, and she began to shiver in dread. Something was terribly wrong.

"Of course they can hear me! They're being bleeding pricks, that's all! Not exactly unique behaviour for a load of Gryffindors. Fifty points from Gryffindor ought to get those smiles off their ugly faces."

"Malfoy!" objected Ron, but Malfoy paid him no mind. He was still waiting for some sort of acknowledgment from the boys.

_Please respond, please respond, please respond._

There wasn't one.

The older Gryffindors followed Malfoy's lead and began intently watching the younger ones, hoping for some sort of clue into what was happening.

"Finally," said the redheaded boy called Hugo, rolling his eyes. "James, you always take forever."

"I won't apologize for that," said James, his dark hair in disarray. "Perfection takes time."

"Apparently, you didn't take long enough," observed the last boy, who had strangely familiar eyes and black hair. "You just lost."

"Checkmate!" exclaimed Hugo in triumph. "That's two out of three!"

"Best four out of five?" asked James immediately, beginning to reset the chess set as the fire danced behind him.

"No way!" laughed Hugo as if he was expecting this request. "My dad said yours always asked that when he lost! He told me not to give you a chance to take my victory."

"I hope Uncle Ron will show me his tricks," said the youngest boy with a grin. "Dad's a better Quidditch teacher for sure, but your dad always had him beat at wizard's chess."

"Uncle Ron?" gasped Ginny.

"It doesn't mean anything," whimpered Ron, though he didn't convince anyone, not even himself. "There are lots of Rons talented at wizard's chess. It probably comes with the name, now that I think about it." He tried to chuckle, but it came out as a strangled noise.

"Shut up," Harry growled, waving a hand in Ron's face.

"—and then Professor Longbottom told me I had a real talent," the unnamed boy was saying, "which is good, because I read that Herbology can be really useful in healing."

"Still want to be a Healer?"

"Well, yeah. If I become a Healer, Dad won't have to take us to St. Mungo's every time we stub our toes," he said, causing the other two boys to laugh.

"Dad _is_ horrible at healing spells."

"So's mine. Mum cut herself slicing up fruit over the summer, and Dad tried to heal her, only he ended up turning the blood trails into red worms that kept crawling out of her hand. I thought she was going to leave him after that," said Hugo, snickering and shaking his head as he remembered. "Mum was beyond pissed and screaming like a total lunatic."

"Aunt Lavender freaks me out when she's mad," said James with a shudder. His dark-haired companion nodded in agreement.

"At least you don't have to live with it," Hugo said good-humouredly, in such a way that made it seem as if he didn't _actually_ mind his mother's temper.

"Well, unless she sends you a Howler like Grandma did to your dad second year, she won't be yelling at you for another couple of months at least."

"Holy shit—" Harry clamped a hand over Ron's mouth within a fraction of a second, not wanting to miss another word.

"Oh yeah, for stealing that car! I would've loved to see Dad's face, Uncle Harry's too!"

"Are you guys ready for bed? I'm beat," said the youngest boy, stifling a yawn.

"Yeah, let's go."

And with that, the three boys, two black-haired, one redheaded, shuffled out of the common room and climbed the stairs to their dormitory without a single glance backward.

* * *

**a/n: **Dun dun dun dun... And the plot thickens! Luckily, it also means that this is where the good parts start! Please read and review - I'd love to get some feedback :)


	3. Wonder

**III**

"**...wonder on, till truth make all things plain."**

—**_A Midsummer Night's Dream_**

_October 14, 2017, 12:39 A.M._

Draco, after a quick internal review of the night's events, concluded that he absolutely no idea what was going on. From the horrified looks on the Gryffindors' faces, it was not good.

Wonderful.

He would have to spend even more time with them as their sodding Gryffindor complexes activated and forced them to solve the problem, probably with a load of misplaced and unnecessary optimism. He didn't think he had ever missed the chilly Slytherin dungeons as much as he did now. Well, no, that wasn't true. There had been this summer, but — he shuddered — he didn't want to think about that. He returned his countenance to one of patronizing indifference, nose up, eyes blank, slight downturn to his lips. Just like Mother taught him.

The Gryffindors still weren't talking. Potter looked as if he were going to cry, and Weasley seemed ready to crawl into the foetal position. The Weaselette and Granger stared at each other, both obviously hysterical and struggling for words. Probably of comfort. Draco's frown deepened in disgust.

"If you don't say anything, I'm going to presume I can leave," he said, not sure whether he wanted one of them to respond or not. Sure, he didn't desire wasting another sodding second with Potter and his fan club, but then again, he hadn't ever seen the Boy Wonder shed a tear, and the only time he'd heard about him crying had been when the Dementors invaded the Hogwarts Express. Whatever was happening now must be serious, and Draco was curious. Perhaps he could use it to his advantage, strike Potter down while he was weak, get out of his mission even — but no, that was impossible. He _was_ a Slytherin after all and didn't have any of that optimistic shit running through his blood. He was a realist in the best of times and unrelentingly pessimistic in the worst. Suffice it to say this year landed in the "worst" category. No, he had no leeway in his mission, and the Dark Lord had made the..._consequences_ of not following orders disturbingly clear.

Draco shuddered again.

"Well?" he barked, straightening his spine as he spoke and glaring at his mute peers. He waited a few moments and received no answer. "Sod it."

He began moving in the direction of the door leading out of the common room when a small hand caught his arm.

"Wait, we don't know what's out there yet." Granger was green in the face and seemed about to vomit, and Draco snatched his arm away.

"Don't touch me, you filthy—"

"Malfoy, now is _not _the time for that," the Weaselette interrupted, and something in her voice made him refrain from verbally ripping her to shreds right along with the Mudblood.

"What's going on?" he demanded, growing increasingly incensed. It was torturous enough just breathing the same air as these people, but to not know why the hell they looked as if someone had told them Dumbledore just died was seriously testing the modicum of patience he possessed.

Draco grimaced as he realized the irony of his little joke.

"I — I'm not sure," murmured Granger, sinking onto one of the couches and immediately sagging her shoulders in — what? Sadness? Anger? Fear? Draco couldn't tell.

"Well, I am!" Weasley yelled without precursor, an eager look on his face_. Oh, here we go,_ Draco thought to himself. _This will be bloody good._ "We're dreaming! It's obvious, isn't it?"

Weasley, as usual, didn't disappoint him in his utter stupidity.

"Yes, Weasel, because it's so _completely _logical that we could all be having the _exact _same dream at the _exact _same time," he said sardonically, taking a chair near Granger, who was still slumped over with her head in her hands. Honestly, _what _an idiot. What anyone saw in Weasley was beyond his comprehension. Sure, he occasionally labelled Potter "Pea-Brained Potty," but even Potter was ten times as intelligent as the Weasel King.

"We could have been given the same sleeping potion!" Weasley shouted back, growing red in the face.

"So you mean to say," said Draco slowly, pretending to ponder Weasley's idea, "that we were all slipped a sleeping potion without our knowledge sometime yesterday, and this potion has somehow planted us in the _same _dream, despite the fact that the only sleeping potions we've ever learned about only cause actual sleep, not dreams?"

"Well, how else would you explain it?" yelled the Weasel, approaching hyperventilation.

"I don't know what there is _to _explain," Draco said frankly. "It's not as if any of you sods have inconvenienced yourselves enough to tell me a bloody thing."

"We're dreaming," Weasley said to himself, nodding his head with glazed-over eyes. "We must be dreaming, because otherwise..._No_, we're dreaming."

Draco allowed the ginger git to mumble on for a few moments and collected his thoughts. He would need to use another approach if he was to get answers out of the crazed Gryffindors. Clearly using rational thinking didn't work with them. He ventured to guess that under normal circumstances it would convince at least Granger, but these circumstances were far from normal. Draco grinned as he realized what would give him the greatest chance of success. This was going to be fun.

He stood lazily from his perch and sauntered over to where Weasley was sitting on the floor, still speaking incoherently. After bending his knees in order to reach his target, Draco lifted an arm and swatted Weasley's overgrown head with as much force as he could muster.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?" the redhead screamed, attempting to stand on teetering legs. He appeared confused, shocked, and furious — exactly how Draco had hoped he would react.

"You have fewer brain cells than you do Galleons, Weasel, what's the loss of a couple more?" Draco returned to his previous seat and folded his arms, a smug smile on his face. "Now. Care to explain why you think we're in some potion-induced dream?"

"I'm going to _Avada _you, you wanker! This isn't real anyway, so what's the harm?" Weasley laughed a little and began pacing. "I mean, this just _can't _be...this is not the future! Me and Lavender...bloody hell."

Suddenly it hit Draco like all the bricks in Diagon Alley.

_I hope Uncle Ron will show me his tricks._

_Aunt Lavender freaks me out when she's mad._

_I would've loved to see Dad's face, Uncle Harry's too!_

The future...Was it possible? He'd never heard of Hugo or James or seen the third one in the corridors, and it wasn't as if there were lots of friends named Harry and Ron. And they'd mentioned something about a Howler — Weasley _had _got one in second year, hadn't he? But what was that bit about the car? And why the fuck didn't Granger have anything to say about this? Hell, he'd even settle for discussing it with Potter or the Weaselette, just to listen to someone with more intelligence than Longbottom's toad.

"Am I the only one who hasn't been chugging Snape's potions?" Draco looked at the three taciturn occupants of the room; Granger was in the same position on the couch, and Potter and the Weaselette were cross-legged next to each other on the floor in front of the fire, not speaking. "You can't honestly believe — the _future_?"

"We don't know anything for certain," Granger said, finally lifting her bushy head. "There must be a more tenable explanation—"

"You think?" scoffed Draco. "The future...What a fucking joke."

"I don't find this funny!" Draco turned to peer into the bloodshot eyes of Weasley's sister. She looked wrecked, nearly as bad as Potter, and her horrid red hair burned even brighter with the light of the flames crackling behind her.

"Did I ask for your opinion, Lady Weasel?" he asked. "You come from the same family as _him_" — he jabbed a finger in the other Weasley's direction — "so you'll hardly be helpful in a situation that requires brains."

"For your information, Malfoy, I happened to receive some of the highest marks in the _school_ last year—"

"Not exactly relevant in situations where we're examining the possibility of _alternate decades_," he snarled. Merlin, she had to be almost as stupid as her brother. Their parents must be so very proud. But then again, shit apples had to come from a shit tree. The entire ginger clan was likely brain cell deficient. While Draco and his parents undoubtedly had their differences and disagreements, at least he'd inherited intellect, good looks, and money. The Weasley siblings had gotten sod all.

"Please don't fight," Granger groaned, rubbing her temples. "We have to figure this out, and the less we fight, the faster it'll go."

"Alright then, Mudblood," — she flinched at the word, but it's not as if he was going to feel remorseful for saying something _true_ when he didn't even feel guilty about the lies he told — "What's the plan? You're usually the one bailing out Tweedledum and Tweedledee, are you not?"

"I — I was thinking of going to the library?" She phrased it as a question. "We're in Hogwarts, after all, and since apparently no one can see or hear us, it's our best bet for information."

"It figures that the bookworm's solution is to go to the library," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Is it true you sleep there this year?"

Granger tried and failed miserably to hide her blush. "That was _one _time," she said weakly, her voice low. "I was up late studying, and I just sort of...Oh, this isn't important right now!"

"On the contrary, Granger, making fun of Gryffindors is always a top priority." He smirked and stretched out his legs. She was just _too_ easy to rile up, and unlike the Weasel and Potter, she always had rejoinders ready for him.

"Do you really think you'll find anything useful at the library, Hermione?" Draco, and everyone else in the common room, snapped their heads to look at Potter, who had spoken for the first time since the boys went upstairs.

"Oh, Harry, I can't be sure, but—"

"What do you mean will _she _find anything useful?" Draco interjected. Was this always what happened? Potter and Weasley would find themselves knee deep in shit and Granger would come to their rescue, pulling them out like dead weights? Did they even _try _to help? Merlin knew Granger was a piece of work with a bossy tone that made him want to hex his ears off, but he had to give her at least a little credit for putting up with that kind of expectation. And yet, he thought contemplatively, it was _her _fault for choosing to be friends with the skivers in the first place.

"Oh, right," said Potter quietly, adjusting his glasses. "We'll all help."

"What if there's something out there we'd rather not see?" asked the Weasel, huddling in the corner. Baby.

"You're welcome to stay here alone, Weasel," said Draco, rising from his chair. "In fact, I'd even go so far as to encourage it. You've likely got ankles to bite in the meantime."

"And leave you alone with my friends and sister? I don't think so, Malfoy!" shouted Weasley, now resolute. He strode past his fellow Gryffindors and Draco, deliberately knocking the shoulder of the latter. "Well?" Weasley pivoted back to face them. "Are we going, or not?"

.

~#~

.

_3:57 A.M._

They didn't find shit. Even Granger, who knew the library like the back of her hand, was at a loss. According to her, the shelves were "all wrong," the books "out of order," and she had "no idea" where the restricted section was. When she finally managed to find a section of books alluding to time travel, the majority of the information was about traveling to the past, not the future. Granger read a few paragraphs aloud when she found them interesting or somewhat pertinent, but nothing could explain magically popping into another time period with no sort of stimulant, if that was even what happened. As it was, Draco wasn't convinced, and he was grateful for his Slytherin scepticism, as it appeared to be the only thing keeping him sane.

Potter was on the verge of tears again.

"Harry?" asked Granger, reaching out a tentative hand and letting it fall on Potter's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I — could I have a word with you, Hermione? In private?" he asked, rising from his chair before Granger had even offered her acquiescence.

"Of course, Harry." She, too, rose and followed Potter to a dark corner of the library, where Draco couldn't discern their expressions. Lucky for him, Weasley was passed out on the wood table, snoring loudly, and if the Weaselette's keen eyes and pitched forward posture were anything to go by, she wanted to know the topic of conversation as desperately as he did.

"Watch and learn, Lady Weasel," he said, flicking his wand to the obscure corner where Potter and Granger were standing.

"If you're right...Harry, this could change everything." Granger's voice carried over to Draco and the youngest Weasley, clear as if she was sitting right beside them, but though her words were clear, their meaning was as muddy as her blood. _What _could change everything? Whatever it was, Granger sounded positively ecstatic about it, which meant he already despised the thing.

"How did you do that?"

"Shut it and listen," he snapped, not wanting to miss something important.

"I have to be right, Hermione!" Potter was insisting. "You know what the prophecy said! Either must die—"

"—at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives," Granger finished for him. What was this about a prophecy? _Neither can live while the other survives..._ Who couldn't live? And why were a pair of Gryffindors so flipping happy about someone dying?

"If this really is the future," said Potter, "then either Voldemort's dead or we've been fighting him for twenty years, which isn't bloody likely, is it?"

Draco felt his heart stop in his chest. The prophecy was about Potter and the Dark Lord? And if Potter was right and they were in the future, then that meant the Dark Lord had fallen, and it would follow that most of his Death Eaters had fallen with him. Death Eaters like his father. Death Eaters like _him._

Well, fuck.

Draco had a high chance of being substantially buggered. He would consider jumping for joy if he found out he was even _alive_ in whatever warped universe they'd gotten themselves stuck in, let alone married with children like Potter and Weasley. But wait. What was he thinking? There was no need to contemplate any sort of expression of joy, because this _wasn't _the future. He didn't know what it was, but it _couldn't _be the future. He was not going to fail, and the Dark Lord was not going to fall.

"We have to find out how I did it," Potter said, and Draco refocused his attention. Being with Potter and the Gryffindors was beginning to have its perks — he'd learned about a prophecy that his father had neglected to mention to him, and now Potter was going to dig up the way in which he supposedly defeated the Dark Lord, all without Draco having to lift a finger. He could then hand the information over to the Dark Lord when everything returned to normal, thus preventing the possibility of Potter's victory. It was a seemingly fool proof plan, though the fact that the Weaselette knew he was eavesdropping did present a slight issue. Draco's mind raced to come up with a solution, and he found himself staring at the Weasel. As he did, it came to him. He could pretend to be as dumb as Weasley, not comprehending anything Granger and Potter were saying.

Who knew the Weasel's idiocy would one day come in handy?

"What are they talking about?" Draco asked, furrowing his brows in mock confusion. "What did Potter do, and why were they saying something about a prophecy?"

"Now who needs to shut it, Malfoy?" the Weasley girl replied, ignoring his questions. Well, fine. He could be persistent.

"I'm serious; tell me what they mean by it," he said in a petulant tone he often employed with his parents. Well, in his younger days at least. Now he hardly spoke to his mother, as she was frosty around other people and seldom allowed herself to melt even in front of him. He'd caught her crying once during the summer, and in response, she'd put a silencing charm on the bedroom she'd shared with his father before he was taken to Azkaban. Sometimes she still let the ice crack in front of him, but suffice it to say, this Christmas would most likely be snowy in more ways than one.

He missed her, his mother, not the listless, cold shell of a woman she'd become in his father's absence. The Mark's blackness was polluting him from the inside out; he felt sick and scared, and he craved the comforting presence his mother used to be for him in times when his father's disciplinary lectures had made him cry or when he'd fallen off his broomstick and scraped his knee. He understood _why _she had turned cold; it was her way of dealing with the grief, the fear, many of the same emotions Draco was dealing with. But unlike her, he found it difficult to live with them alone, and he reacted with a fiendfyre of rage in place of frigid despair.

As for his father, well, he wasn't quite sure how he felt about Lucius being gone. Though he was all the way in Azkaban with only Dementors for company, it was like Draco could still feel Lucius's presence every time he thought about the Dark Lord and what he was expected to do. When he'd broken Potter's nose on the train in the beginning of the school year, he'd said it was for his father. It was, but not in the way Potter had probably assumed. Draco had grown up admiring his father, never questioning what he did or why, instead copying his arrogant attitude and beliefs about the world and the people in it. His father represented strength, power, prestige — in other words, what a wizard was meant to aspire to. After the return of the Dark Lord, however, Lucius became a broken man, more and more deranged. Lines stretched around his mouth and forehead, and his eyes sunk into their sockets. He cowered in the Dark Lord's company and grew restless even at home, constantly fidgeting and looking over his shoulder as if he expected to be _Avada'd _at any point in time.

And it killed Draco.

So, yeah. He had stomped on Potter's nose with as much strength as he could for the man his father used to be, the man who'd been so utterly fucked up by the return of the Lord whose mark he bore. Draco had been hoping that if Lucius managed to retrieve whatever item the Dark Lord wanted from the Department of Mysteries, then perhaps the father he knew would come back, but Potter, as usual, got in the way and ended up ruining _everything_.

"Did you hear me?" he asked, his voice harsher than he'd intended as he cut through his dark line of thinking.

"I heard you, Malfoy, and I chose not to answer," said the redhead haughtily. Merlin's balls, she was annoying. "I'm not going to tell you a single thing, and neither will Ron, Hermione, or Harry."

At least she was acting like she'd bought his incompetence. What was that odd muggle phrase? Lock, stock, and...

"I will find out eventually, you know."

"Good luck with that, Malfoy."

_Barrel_.

* * *

**a/n: **YOU GUYS. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE DRACO MALFOY? On a scale of 1 to 10, it's probably somewhere around 32823940. Seriously. That's why if I ever do his character a disservice, especially in terms of narration, I want you to tell me.

Anywaaaay, I hope you liked the chapter overall (and Draco especially because how could you not?)

Please R & R! Xo - Cam


	4. Heart

**IV**

"**False face must hide what the false heart doth know."**

—**_Macbeth_**

_8:01 A.M._

Draco awoke to a stream of sunlight hitting his face. He groaned and arched his back. With the all of the pops and creaks his stretching produced, it was impossible that he'd slept in his bed in the Slytherin dungeons, but maybe he was in the common room?

He cracked open a single silver eye and nearly fell out of the three wooden chairs he was lying across.

_Bugger..._

"Malfoy, you're awake." Granger stood before him, her arms wrapped around her chest.

"Brilliant observation, Granger. You really are the brightest witch of our age," he said, the bite to his words not up to par with his usual standard. It was, however, fairly early in the morning, and he'd only managed to get a few hours of sleep. He was completely knackered to put it mildly.

"Well I was smart enough to find a couch to sleep on," she said, smirking at his choice of resting place.

"Hmm," he murmured noncommittally, annoyed both that she was right and that his spine felt like a stiff metal rod.

"Malfoy, are you—"

"Whatever it is you're about to ramble on about, I'm sure it can wait until I've gotten a few more hours of sleep," said Draco, eyeing a plush-looking chair by one of the library's endless bookshelves.

"It can't, actually," she said, a bit uncomfortably if Draco was reading her visage correctly. She waited a few seconds, shifting on her feet and chewing her lower lip.

"Well go on, then," he snapped, pleased to hear that the sharpness had returned to his voice. It simply wasn't worth his time to talk to Granger if he wasn't going to either make her cry or extremely angry, neither of which he could do if he didn't have the proper venom to his tone.

"Harry, Ron, Ginny, and I think that we should take a look round the castle, see if anything can shed some light onto our...situation." As soon as she finished speaking, she resumed tugging on her lip with her teeth.

"Granger, would you cut it out with the lip-biting? You're going to end up chewing it off with those beaver teeth of yours," Draco said in reply, though he did agree that it wasn't a bad idea to roam Hogwarts for a bit. He could find out more about what happened between the Dark Lord and Potter, possibly even discover something about his own sorry fate. _No_, he chastised himself for what felt like the thousandth time, he was _not_ in the future. But like he'd pointed out to the Weasel earlier, it wasn't a dream either. So what else could it be? Clearly the Gryffindweebs were resigned to accepting it as their "destinies" or something equally ridiculous, considering Potter had spent the majority of the past eight hours spouting tears of what Draco now presumed was happiness. Even Granger was earnestly ruminating upon the idea that the Hogwarts they were in was the Hogwarts of the future, which was perhaps the most convincing factor of all.

"It's a nervous habit; it's not like I do it consciously," she said, desisting nevertheless. "Are you honestly going to stand there and act like you're not in the least bit worried? Or afraid?"

Draco regarded her question. Was he worried or afraid? Well, he was bloody terrified that this _was _the future, that he would be dead, that the Dark Lord really had been killed, that they wouldn't be able to return to their time... Would he let Granger know all this, however?

The thought was laughable.

Sharing emotions is not something Slytherins do. _Ever_. Draco had been taught to believe that it was a sign of weakness. His heart was built for pumping blood, not filling him with sodding _feelings_.

"Why would I be worried?" he scoffed, meeting Granger's eyes. "I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be the brave ones, but you lot are pitiful."

"We _are_ brave, but that doesn't mean we don't ever get scared. Bravery isn't the absence of fear; it's being able to keep going _in spite _of your fear," said Granger, looking at him strangely. He wondered briefly if she could see through his cocksure façade, but he doubted it. He'd been practicing it for years, after all.

He again mulled over her words in his mind. He hated having to admit it, even to himself, but she had a point. He'd wasted so much time attempting to rid himself of his fear, wishing it away, internally berating himself for having it in the first place. _Malfoys are not cowards_, his father's voice echoed in his head. But did being a coward mean merely having fear or letting it absorb you so fully that you give up? He was starting to consider the latter connotation.

"Either way, Granger, you're still pathetic," he settled on in answer. "But I suppose your exploration idea isn't entirely idiotic."

"Let's go then. The others are waiting in the front of the library."

He followed her a few steps behind, suddenly not at all confident that he fancied seeing what was waiting for him in the corridors. It was easy for Potter and Weasley, who already knew some of their lives, but what if he didn't like the answers to his questions? What if his life in this alternate universe was rotten, and he was in Azkaban? What if he didn't have a life at all? Draco ran a hand through his hair and glued his eyes to Granger's mop head. _Bravery isn't the absence of fear_, he told himself. _It's being able to keep going in spite of your fear_. If he pretended like the Mudblood hadn't been the one to say it, the theory wasn't a shit inducement to keep walking.

"Okay," said Potter, the calmest Draco had seen him since the Room of Requirement. "I think we should try the Great Hall. The professors will be there, and they could discuss any number of things that could help."

"Not to mention, your...well, Hugo, James, and the other one," said Hermione, covering her near blunder. She was probably trying to keep things from getting too uncomfortable, but Draco took the opportunity to promote a sense of malaise, if only to make himself feel better about the slight nausea he was experiencing.

"Who names their son something as lame as Hugo?" asked Draco. "Not to mention the irony. I mean, the Weasel naming his child something that means intelligence?" He snorted. It really was amusing.

"We — we don't that Hugo is—" the Weaselette started to say.

"I thought the general consensus was that we've somehow landed in the future, which would put Hugo as Weasel Junior and the black-haired ones as Potheads," Draco said, folding his arms and daring them to refute his claim. "I can't wait to see your offspring, Granger, if any bloke was crazy enough to marry you. I'll bet they have dead animals for hair too."

"At least I have a good chance of being _alive_," she countered, unknowingly voicing Draco's greatest fear about their predicament. "I'll bet you're in your grave, or at the very least, wasting away in Azkaban."

He realized when she said it that he hadn't ever wanted anyone to be wrong as much as he wanted Granger to be in that moment. But, again, he was not to show weakness, not to show feeling.

So he shrugged.

"Well, that means I'll be away from you, so it can't be entirely awful." He smirked but had a sinking feeling it hadn't reached his eyes. "In fact, your husband will probably off himself and join me soon if he hasn't already."

"Enough, Malfoy." Potter rubbed his eyes with his palms and sighed. "It's bad enough that we're here. Don't make it worse for yourself by antagonizing everyone."

Draco bristled. Stupid Potter. Just had to act like he was above it all, didn't he, when only hours ago he'd been the one pointing his wand threateningly at Draco? What a bloody hypocrite. But Draco did see the advantage to not making the Gryffindors hate him more than they already did. He was stuck in a terrible situation with only _them_ for companionship, and if he wasn't careful, they could try to get out of it without him. He couldn't let that happen. So, after Potter spoke, he gave a slight incline of his head and remained silent.

"Wow, didn't think that would actually work," muttered Potter. "Right. Shall we?"

.

~#~

.

_8:42 A.M._

It was bedlam in the Great Hall. There were students everywhere, raucous despite the hour, and Draco didn't know which direction he should be looking. The tables were overflowing with food — that was normal at least. Draco was curious as to what would happen if he took some. He _was_ famished, and they would all have to eat eventually, but would the other students see the food get taken, or would it turn invisible as soon as he touched it?

"I'm hungry," he announced to the group of Gryffindors. The Weasel's face crumpled in anguish as soon as the words slipped off his tongue.

"Me too," he moaned. "D'you think we can eat some of this?" He looked to Granger for her judgment. "We can be sneaky about it, right?"

"I suppose we have to try," she said, placing a hand on her stomach. "Get some off the ends of the tables, where there aren't as many students sitting, and make sure to do it when they're focused on their conversation rather than their plates." Weasley nodded and headed for the Gryffindor table. Shocker.

"I think the rest of us should split up while Ron gets food," said Granger. "Harry, you take the professors' table, Ginny, Ravenclaw, and I'll take Slytherin."

"And leave me with Hufflepuff? Not bloody likely, Granger," Draco said, shaking his head. He more often than not had a reason for loathing Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, but Hufflepuffs? Hufflepuffs he couldn't stand on principle. "I don't need to listen to stories about rainbows and unicorns and all that shit. _I'll _go to the Slytherin table, and—"

"Fine, no one will go to Hufflepuff, and we'll both go to Slytherin. I don't trust you to report what you hear."

After deciding to meet back after breakfast had ended, Draco matched Granger's strides as she headed for his house's table. He nodded in approval as he saw the table's occupants. If its students were any indication, then Slytherin was still the school's best house. He wondered if any of them were _his _kids. It would be bloody bizarre, but at least he would be able to rest easier knowing he was alive.

"Look, the post is coming," said Granger, pointing to where, sure enough, owls were swooping down to the tables and dropping letters, packages, and _The Daily Prophet_. "_The Prophet_ should be enlightening," she commented, covertly grabbing one from a student mesmerized by the package he was opening.

Draco took a seat next to her on an empty section of the bench. As she unrolled the newspaper, he felt that the headline blaring at them in thick, black letters was a harbinger of his fate before deciding that the feeling was ridiculous — he was acting far too much like a Gryffindor.

As Draco moved the paper to allow them both to see, his eyes quickly scanned the article, which featured a picture of an older Potter, grinning widely next to Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was disappointed to see that Potter didn't look any more hideous in his old age than he did in the present time.

**_WAR MEMORIAL TO BE ERECTED FOR THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC_**

_The Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt announced just yesterday that a war memorial will be built and placed in the centre of the Ministry of Magic's offices in order to honour the fallen heroes of the Great War, which ended nineteen years ago. The memorial, which is expected to feature the names of all those who lost their lives in battle, is to be completed by the twentieth anniversary of the war and will be unveiled during a grand celebration in Diagon Alley before being moved to its permanent resting place in the Ministry. The celebration, under the direction of head event planners Lavender Weasley and Parvati Boot, will include a parade, fireworks, and speeches from the "Golden Trio" as well as Draco Malfoy and Neville Longbottom, who were instrumental in the defeat of You-Know-Who._

"WHAT?" screeched Granger, who had apparently reached the same line as Draco. "You were — you were—"

"Instrumental in the defeat of the Dark Lord," Draco whispered, not understanding what he was reading. It couldn't be... _Him_? _He _helped kill his own master? Why would he do that, and how? The slight rush of relief he felt at being alive in this universe was smothered by an overwhelming sense of disbelief and horror. "No," he said aloud, his voice cracking. "I don't — I wouldn't—"

"You did," said Granger softly, shaking her head and looking up at him with wide, honey eyes. "You must have."

Draco didn't answer her. He had to know more. He didn't believe this; obviously it was bullocks, all of it, and yet...

Fucking hell.

He didn't actually think any of this could be true, did he? He wanted desperately for the answer to be no, but there was an undeniable pull in his gut enticing him to keep reading. He snatched up the paper and stood, scanning the front page as swiftly as he could.

The article didn't mention him again. After leafing through the remaining pages, he confirmed that his name wasn't included in any other articles. It felt like the universe had just dropped one of those Muggle bombs on him, and he'd been blown apart into a million scattered pieces. He glanced at his left arm, mercifully covered by his stiff, white shirt, and felt his breath hitch.

"Malfoy, are you—"

"DON'T TALK TO ME!" he screamed, pushing his white-blond hair out of his eyes. "You or any of your sodding friends! Just— just stay the fuck away!"

Granger's eyes, if it was possible, got even larger before tightening into slits. She placed her hands on her hips and raised her voice.

"I'm just trying to HELP! I understand that the information is a lot to handle, so—"

"You think?" Draco barked out a hollow laugh that burned his lungs.

"So let us help, Malfoy," she tried again, taking a step forward. "If what _The Prophet _says is true, then—"

"SHUT! UP! I don't need or want a Mudblood's _help_!" he yelled, clenching his fists. And what he wanted even less was any trace of compassion, which only served to provoke his rage further. "Even if what the bloody _Prophet_ says is true, that doesn't make us allies! I still hate you, all of you!"

Granger stopped her movement.

"The feeling is mutual; I assure you," she said coldly. "But you can't deny what's written in black and white. Somewhere along the line, you must have changed. People can do that, you know." With that, she turned on him and strode away, seizing the paper as she did so.

Granger was wrong. People don't do complete one-eighties. They don't start off with a Dark Mark on their arm and end with a Phoenix badge. They don't serve the Dark Lord only to become a Potter supporter. They don't stop despising Mudbloods and blood traitors when it's all they've ever known. And because he knew people didn't change like that, that he _wouldn't _change like that, he could deny the contents of _The Daily Prophet _as much as he bloody wanted.

.

~#~

.

_9:19 A.M._

Draco dreaded returning to the middle of the Great Hall, where everyone was expected to reconvene after breakfast. No doubt the other Gryffindors would react in the exact manner Granger had, trying to help him, acting like they were some sort of _team _now... Merlin, this place was screwed up. Suddenly the idea of him ending up in Azkaban wasn't so bad. At least if he were there, he wouldn't have presumably betrayed his family and everything he believed in. If what was written in _The Prophet _was to be taken as fact, Draco realized, then _he _was a blood traitor. His father probably despised him, maybe even his mother, and most definitely his Aunt Bellatrix and Uncles Rabastan and Rodolphus. It was like a punch to his gut.

His entire family against him.

Him, on the side of Potter and the Order.

A line drawn between everything he thought he knew about himself and everything he was discovering.

It was enough to give anyone a fucking migraine.

"Oh, Malfoy, there you are." He recognized Potter's voice and didn't bother raising his head; he was sure Potter would have plenty to say without him needing to comment. "Did you and Hermione find out anything?"

"What?" Draco blinked. Granger hadn't told him?

"I guess that's a no," said Potter, who Draco noticed was not carrying a paper or looking at him with anything other than hesitant toleration. "Do you at least know where she went?"

"Right here." Granger joined them, a heap of fruit in her arms, with both Weasleys on her tail. She set it down on the now-empty Slytherin table, and all of them took seats on the benches, enthusiastically digging into the food. The Weasel had also managed to bring toast and muffins, and the Weaselette carried a stack of gold plates and cups and a near-full jug of pumpkin juice.

Draco, feeling the need to connect with _something_ in his normal life, took a gleaming, green apple out of the pile. He bit into it, enjoying the satisfying crunch and tart taste to the juice.

He could feel Granger staring.

"Take a photo, Granger, it'll last longer," he sneered, wiping his chin with a napkin.

"A photo of you? What a waste of film that would be," she said calmly, choosing a blueberry muffin to munch on.

Good. She was back to being a bitch. But it didn't do anything to explain why she'd neglected to mention his future...actions to her friends. Actions that had been "instrumental" in saving their sorry arses.

Why would any incarnation of him think that was a good idea?

"So," Granger continued, clapping her hands together. "Did anyone have any success?"

"You could say that," Potter replied slowly.

A few seconds stretched in silence, and Draco decided that along with being exceedingly sensitive, Gryffindors were also unbearably patient. He would have to rectify that.

"Explain, Potter," he drawled, taking another bite out of his apple.

"McGonagall is Headmistress."

Draco looked up, now much more attentive. If the crazy cat-lady was in charge of the school, did that mean Dumbledore was dead? And if so, had Draco been the one to do it? He couldn't imagine that being the case if his future self was asked to speak at the unveiling of a war memorial. So did the old loon retire after the war, or had the Dark Lord gotten someone else to do what Draco chose not to?

"And she was talking about an article in _The Prophet_" — Draco held his breath — "but I couldn't get my hands on it." He exhaled as Potter went on. "She thinks they'll specially honour Dumbledore in a war memorial service, along with..." Potter scowled and paused for effect. "Snape."

"Snape?" the Weasel echoed. "Why the hell would they honour _Snape?_"

"Dunno," Potter said. "Dumbledore always trusted him though. Maybe he was right all along."

"I can't believe Dumbledore didn't survive the war," whispered Granger, her eyes getting misty. "I wonder who killed him..."

"It had to have been You-Know-Who." At a pointed look from Potter, Weasley's teary-eyed sister corrected herself. "I mean Voldemort. Who else would have stood a chance in a battle with Dumbledore?"

Draco silently acknowledged that her idea had merit. Sure, the old professor was a coot, but he was a formidable wizard, the only one the Dark Lord had ever feared if what he'd heard was true.

As for Snape, he didn't know what to think. Despite the fact that Snape was his godfather, he had never been close enough to the man to learn much about him and on no occasion anything about his private beliefs. Most of what Draco _did_ know was based on loose assumptions and hearsay. He'd learned that Snape was a spy for the Dark Lord, but he couldn't discount the idea of him being a double agent. He was mysterious, creepy, and expressed even less emotion than the normal Death Eater, never allowing the others to be privy to his internal monologue. Never once had Draco seen him kill or even suggest killing, and now that Draco thought about it, his apathetic godfather had not uttered the word "Mudblood" in his company.

Snape had been harbouring a secret as big as his sodding nose for years, decades even, and Draco was helpless against the swell of anger and hurt that bubbled in his chest. His own godfather, deceiving him his entire life? His own godfather, a spy for the Order and a blood traitor? He was as bad as...

Well, Draco apparently.

The realization caused him to groan. The bloody mental cartwheels he had to do just to keep up with this shit…

"You're absolutely right, Ginny," Granger was saying, as both girls continued to cry, "which is why we're going to find out how it happened and stop it when we get back to our time."

"Do you really think it's a good idea to try to mess with the future?" Draco asked. The results couldn't be any better than messing with the past, and those were consistently disastrous, based on what he'd read of them earlier that day.

"Of course you don't care, Malfoy," she spat, tears slipping down her cheeks. "You're probably glad Dumbledore's dead. At least Voldemort got _someone _you hate, right?"

"Don't you dare act like you have a _clue _what I'm thinking, Granger," growled Draco. "I was merely suggesting that we consider the implications of running round changing the future on a bloody whim."

"Sure you were," she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "Besides, this is far from a _whim!_ It's _Dumbledore!_"

Draco grit his teeth in annoyance. First she was all disappointed when he lashed out at her, and now she couldn't see it when he was actually trying to help?

"Fine, prance around, fuck everything up. See if I care."

"Who pissed in your pumpkin juice?" asked the Weasel, sniggering into his own glass.

"Keep talking, Weasley, and I'll be sure to piss in yours," Draco snapped, done with this breakfast, done with these Gryffindors, done with this alternate universe.

He didn't speak for the rest of the morning. The Weaselette hadn't learned much of interest at the Ravenclaw table, though she did find out that Loony Lovegood was married and had twin boys in the house. According to her, they were perfectly normal, but Draco found that hard to believe. Knowing Lovegood, she'd probably trained them to conduct searches for Nargles before they could walk.

The other Weasley had been so focused on collecting food that he hadn't heard anything, and Potter said that the rest of the conversation among the professors was negligible, though he'd been quite glad to learn that Longbottom was, in fact, the Herbology professor and Hagrid remained the Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Draco, however, wasn't so pleased. The half-giant was probably still letting the repulsive creatures he brought to class injure defenceless students.

And the worst part? The Gryffindors wanted to go.

"No," Draco said stubbornly, the first word he'd spoken since his previous quarrel with Granger. "Absolutely not. _Any _class but that one."

"Muggle studies, then?" asked Granger, lifting an eyebrow. Draco made a sound of displeasure. "That's what I thought," she said, marching down to the shabby hut the gamekeeper lived in. Potter and the two Weasleys were already almost there.

"Are you always such a bitch?"

"Are you always such a prick?"

"It's called being confident, Granger. You should try it sometime, maybe even pluck up the courage to tell the Weasel how much his ginger hair turns you on," he taunted.

Her cheeks burned cerise. "I hardly think it matters now," she said, holding her head up and failing miserably to convince Draco with her wobbly smile. "He's going to marry Lavender."

"Oh so _now_ you have something against meddling with the future?" asked Draco, genuinely puzzled by Granger's never-ending contradictions.

"Preventing death is not the same thing as preventing two people that love each other from being together, which I assume will one day be the case with Ron and Lavender. One is selfless, and the other is entirely selfish." She gazed up at him with what he interpreted as suspicion. "Why do you care anyway?"

"I don't," Draco said in a bored tone. "It's getting my mind off the torture I'm about to endure."

"Hagrid's class—"

"Is a waste of time, and anyone with half a brain knows it, which is probably why Weasley and Potter are so bloody excited about going. Every word that comes out of that oversized troglodyte's mouth is bullshit."

"Don't you dare insult—"

"You asked for my opinion, Granger," he said, shrugging.

"No, actually, I didn't," she shot back, stomping away from him, her bushy hair flying behind her.

"Whatever," he called, but the word was lost in the susurrus of the autumn wind.

.

~#~

.

_10:33 A.M._

"Today I have a special treat for yeh," said Hagrid, his face alighting in glee.

"Oh lovely," Draco muttered darkly. "Thank Merlin we don't have to participate."

"Shut up," Granger hissed. He had a feeling she was still upset about his earlier remarks about the idiocy and uselessness that was Care of Magical Creatures class.

"Feast yer eyes on this incredible beauty," the professor exclaimed, gesturing to a green ball in the cage behind him. As if on cue, the thing stretched out its long limbs to reveal webbed hands and feet, tiny head horns, and a revolting pustule on its forehead. It grinned, and Draco swore it looked right through him.

So much for "incredible beauty."

"What the hell is that?" asked Draco. He heard one of the students ask the same question behind him. It was comforting to know he wasn't the only one who thought the half-giant should be put in a nuthouse.

"This here, Mr Malfoy, is a clabbert."

Draco froze. There was no way the oaf could see him, was there? No one had been able to in the Great Hall...

"Malfoy." Granger gave his sleeve a tug with her disgusting Mudblood hand.

"Thanks a lot, Granger; now I have to burn this shirt."

"_Malfoy_," she repeated, and he grudgingly turned to where she was gesturing.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe properly.

The resemblance was uncanny. Same platinum hair, same angular features, same well-trained posture... He couldn't place the eye colour, but the boy couldn't be anyone else's son.

He had a _son._

"It doesn't attack humans, does it?" the younger Malfoy asked, eyeing his professor with thinly-veiled distrust.

"Only prats like you." Draco recognized the Potter boy from Gryffindor Tower. James, was it?

"Then you'd better run and hide too," said the blond, smirking. Much to Draco's consternation, James actually _laughed_ back. His son was friends with Potter's kid?

"Since they seem to know so much about them, how's about James and Scorpius come up and tell us what they read on clabberts in their textbooks las' week?"

_Scorpius_. His name was Scorpius.

Of course, Draco had always known that he would eventually become a father. It was no secret that the family mantle would one day be passed to him, but the idea used to seem far more desirable than it had for the past few months. He could no longer help the traces of bitterness that permeated his conversations with his mother, the reluctance with which he signed her letters to his father in Azkaban.

_Your son, Draco._

They say blood is thicker than water; sometimes it's so thick it weighs you down to your bones.

He often found himself wondering whether his parents resented him for the obligation of child bearing they'd been forced to fulfil, whether that's all he was to them — an obligation — but according to tradition, the Malfoy name must live on. An heir must be produced — a legacy even more than a child, especially in his case. Draco need only pull up his sleeve to reveal the mark that was his father's stamp of approval. But this... This was surreal.

The possibility that he would continue the Malfoy name was no longer hypothetical; the obligation had been dutifully carried out despite his blood traitor status. Draco supposed it was always going to be this way, but when he looked at Scorpius, he wasn't hit with the rush of resentment he expected. He almost felt... proud.

But of course the Weasel had to ruin the moment.

"I can't believe you made fun of me for naming my kid Hugo when you named your brat Scorpius," he said, snickering. "What kind of name is that anyway?"

_A bloody better one than Hugo..._

"My family has a tradition of naming their children after constellations and stars," Draco said instead, not sure why he was bothering to explain. It wasn't as if he owed it to Weasley. "Scorpius is—"

"One of the brightest constellations, given the Latin name for scorpion." Draco sighed. It figured that Granger, otherwise known as the human encyclopaedia, would know all about it. "But fascinatingly, not every culture refers to it as scorpion. In Chinese mythology, it's actually considered part of the Azure Dragon, so I suppose it fits that you named him Scorpius." At Weasley's obtuseness, Granger continued. "His name is Draco, which means dragon, so it makes sense that he would—"

"If he doesn't get it yet he never will," Draco cut in, wanting to watch Scorpius, to learn more about him. It was odd that he was friends with a Potter, but, well, no one could reach perfection, not even Malfoys.

Though they certainly surpassed any Gryffindor family in the pursuit of it.

Besides, if Granger was planning on tampering with the future, why couldn't he make a few changes as well? The first would be advising his son to stay far away from Potters and Weasleys...

"What, Mr Malfoy, will cause the growth on a clabbert's forehead to turn red?" asked Hagrid.

"Wait — clabberts! Now I remember reading about them," Scorpius answered, his eyes bright. "Sensation of danger, right?"

"Exactly! Five points to Slytherin. Now, Mr Potter." The half-giant stepped in front of the dark-haired boy. "Clabberts are a crossbreed of which two animals?"

James' eyes widened in distress before he locked his gaze to the ground. "Er—" he began sheepishly, fiddling with his robes.

"That's what I thought," sighed his professor, smiling fondly at his student despite his lack of preparation for class. "Scorp?"

"Frog and monkey," said Scorpius automatically.

"Another five points to Slytherin. James, are yeh trying to let them win the House Cup this year?" He laughed boisterously.

"It's the only way they _can_ win, Hagrid," said James. "I'm just trying to give the poor snakes a chance."

"Feel free to let my mum know," said Scorpius. "She and Dad have one of their _friendly_ bets going, and to hear that Gryffindor is throwing the competition...Let's just say she'll be less than pleased, and I'd rather not be on the receiving end of that tantrum."

James visibly flinched. "Well, maybe I'll do a little reading next time."

"Alrigh' class. Everyone needs to write forty lines on the clabbert — twenty on background information, twenty on observation."

Draco blindly followed Scorpius and James, who were finding a picnic table where they could complete the assignment, and reflected on this new information. Things kept getting more and more convoluted, and unfortunately he could no longer blame Potter for his earlier mental breakdown. He felt on the verge of mental incapacitation himself as the last vestiges of his Slytherin scepticism fell away.

This was the future. _His _future.

He'd helped Potter win the war.

He'd survived it and now had a son and wife.

Draco's head sunk onto the table as he realized the infinite calamities that could result from any attempt to alter the result of the war. But he had to try, didn't he? He didn't revel in the obsequious behaviour expected of him by the Dark Lord like his Aunt Bellatrix, but at the same time, his master represented the value Draco held closest — the idea that some wizards were better than others because of their blood. And without his beliefs, what was he?

Nothing — he was nothing. And that feeling of nothingness, that possibility of obliterating the foundation of his being, was enough to discount whatever and whoever he could be in the future. The tinge of pride he'd felt around Scorpius couldn't possibly be worth losing his identity and ostracizing the remainder of his family. Nothing was worth that.

He looked up and noticed that the Gryffindors had congregated around him, varying expressions on their faces. With a nudge from Granger, Potter opened his mouth to speak.

"Malfoy, er—"

"Shut it, Potter."

* * *

**a/n: **I know some of you expected Draco and Hermione to realize right away that Scorpius is their son, but a prolonged discovery has been my plan all along. Hopefully you liked the chapter even if it surprised you - it was a long one! Please review - I love getting feedback :)


	5. Good

**V**

**"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."**

**—Hamlet**

October 15, 2017, 12:48 P.M.

After Hagrid's class, the group used the remainder of the day to sneak food from the kitchens, slip into the prefects' bathroom for showers (scourgifying their clothes in between), and figure out where they were going to sleep. After much argument, it was decided amongst the Gryffindors that the library was the safest place to stay, but Malfoy was insistent that they try the Room of Requirement. Even if it didn't send them back to the present time, at least it could supply proper beds for all of them.

He had been right. The room transformed into a large flat, complete with a furnished sitting room, fireplace, kitchen, five beds, and a bathroom. As grateful as Hermione was for the comforts the room provided, Malfoy's smug smile was almost enough to make her regret yielding to his unrelenting demands. Almost. The bed had been comfortable, and she'd gotten much more sleep than the previous night, not to mention she now had clean robes at her disposal, tucked away in a wardrobe.

She and the others were presently gathered around the table in the kitchen eating lunch, and Hermione couldn't stop watching him. With the exception of determining their living arrangements, Malfoy had been uncharacteristically quiet, all frowns and brooding, and only spoke when directly spoken to. It was unnerving to say the least.

Not to mention those bloody green apples.

He was driving her up the wall with them, eating one every few hours and chewing as loudly as possible because he knew it irritated her. Harry was adamant that they all try to be more sensitive and cautious around the ferret because of his likely mental delicacy at present, but Hermione was this close to strangling him. Malfoy knew it too, was practically relishing in it along with the fact that she couldn't actually act on her desire to inflict physical harm on him, because one: she didn't want to cause friction with Harry, who didn't even know about Malfoy being "instrumental" to Voldemort's defeat, and two: she was simply too nice. The slap in third year was…an isolated incident. She'd been tangled up in a tightly wound ball of emotions, and Malfoy happened to be the one to untangle it. Well, she supposed it was really his face — his hideous, pointy, rodent face, which was currently twisted into the emotional equivalent of a wet blanket. Again.

"Stare any harder, Granger, and you're going to give yourself a brain aneurysm."

"Deigning to speak with us now, are you Malfoy?" she asked, blood boiling, as Malfoy's eyes remained glued to the book he was reading.

"Well I wasn't planning on it, but your ogling is making me uncomfortable. I realize I'm quite visually stunning, but—"

"Every time I think you can't possibly get any fuller of yourself, you surprise me," Hermione snapped, crossing her arms and letting out an unflattering combination of a sigh and a snort. "And just so you know, there's a difference between staring and glaring at someone."

"You're right. Glaring doesn't bother me. Staring does," said Malfoy, finally raising his head from behind the book.

"I was not—"

"You were too, but I'm willing to forgive you so long as I get a nice, long—"

"I swear to Godric Gryffindor," she ground out, her nostrils flaring. "If you say apology, I will not hesitate to stick his sword up your arse."

"She's rather feisty today, isn't she?" he asked drolly, looking around the table. Stupid prat. As if her friends would actually answer in the affirmative…and yet the lack of response didn't seem to bother Malfoy in the slightest. He was semi-smirking for the first time since Care of Magical Creatures. "So what's wrong, Granger?" he asked, leaning forward until she could smell the apple on his breath. "I suspect your chastity belt is on too tight; I can see how that would make you unpleasant. Or maybe it's just that time of the mo—"

"Densaugeo!" screamed Hermione, aiming the end of her wand at Malfoy's mouth. The spell reached its target, and Malfoy's teeth grew to a gross size, incongruous with the rest of his features. "Remember that little gem, huh Malfoy?" she asked scathingly, referring to the duel he and Harry had in fourth year, in which Malfoy's Densaugeo spell deflected and struck Hermione.

"You Mudblood bitch!" he yelled, standing and reaching into his trouser pocket for his wand.

"Go ahead," she said calmly, staying in her chair and crossing her legs. "But you should probably remember that you're in a room full of Gryffindors."

Hermione's words weren't even necessary. Harry, Ron, and Ginny already had their wands at the ready, and Ginny had her mouth open as if she were about to let out a spell.

Malfoy slowly lowered his own wand and took two deliberate steps back.

"So that's how it's going to be, is it?" He cast a scornful glower toward each of them, lingering on Hermione. "Every time I do or say something one of you doesn't like, you'll all gang up on me?"

"We wouldn't expect you to understand the concept of loyalty," Ginny said stonily, her fingers turning white with the tightness of her grip. "But we happen to stick up for our own."

"Who's antagonizing who now, Potter?" sneered Malfoy before trudging over to the bathroom, the usual poise to his gait absent, and slamming the door behind him.

Hermione watched the white door until Harry cleared his throat and broke the tense silence.

"Er, Hermione, he may have a point."

Her mouth opened in indignation. "Are you kidding me? Did you not hear what he was saying?"

"He was acting like a prat," said Harry, shrugging. "It's not exactly unusual behaviour for Malfoy."

"But — but—"

"Hermione," Harry tried again, a pleading note to his voice. "I loathe Malfoy as much as you do, and you know that, but think about his situation. He's here, in his future, with no friends, and he's finding out things about his life that are probably freaking him out." Harry shook his head. "Look, just — I think the mental and emotional torment is bad enough without us adding physical on top of it. I still want to find out what he's been up to in the present time, but—"

"I get it," Hermione sighed, placing her palms flat on the hardwood table. "I'll try to be more…understanding."

"We all will," Ginny put in. She then gave Ron a slap on the arm, prompting him to speak.

"Uh, yeah, no promises."

"Come on, mate, it's not like I'm suggesting we make nice with him and have a friendly round of butter beers," Harry reasoned. "He's still Malfoy."

"Exactly!" Ron pointed out. "He's still Malfoy, also known as the wanker who has tormented us for the past six years! So why should we treat him any differently now?"

The question suffused itself in Hermione's mind. Why indeed? She found herself agreeing to Harry's request, but a significant part of her assent was based on information about Malfoy's future that she, and she alone of the Gryffindors, possessed. Hermione had come close to telling Harry more than once but couldn't shake the feeling that it was Malfoy's secret to divulge. She supposed that was a substantial cause of her anger regarding the Slytherin — she wanted him to stop pretending that he hadn't read The Daily Prophet the day before, stop pretending that nothing had changed, stop pretending that he didn't have another — a better, lighter — side to himself, even if it was buried so deeply that neither of them could see it. The newspaper had as much as proved it existed.

Never having been one to suppress her emotions or avoid confronting them, Hermione couldn't comprehend Malfoy's decision to hide from his personal tribulation and by extension, his feelings. And above all, she despised denial, which Malfoy was over his head in.

But she found herself speaking anyway.

"Because Malfoy is more like us than he cares to admit." She looked down at her hands and began tracing the patterned grains of the wood. "He's scared." She saw a flash of his face from the library the day before, the way he'd looked when they'd been speaking of bravery. Something she'd said had terrified him, and though he'd tried to cover it quickly, she hadn't missed his haunted expression, the pain that had swirled, ever so fleetingly, through the murky, cinereal depths of his eyes. "And like Harry said," Hermione carried on, pushing the image of Malfoy from her mind, "he doesn't have anyone. If we show him a little compassion…who knows what will happen? He can't possibly react any more poorly than he just

"Oh, hell. Fine! I will try to be…what word did you use, Hermione?"

"Understanding," she supplied.

"Understanding," parroted Ron, frowning at the prospect of being civil with Malfoy.

"So how are we going to…go about this?" Ginny asked, looking to Harry.

"An apology would be a good start," he said. "Hermione, what do you think?"

"When you say apology, you mean an apology by me," she said, clarifying more than asking. She could tell Harry was nervous to give her an answer and expected her to throw a tantrum. Well, she wouldn't. She would be mature about this. "Honestly, Harry, it's fine," she assured him. "I'll go tell the ferret I'm sorry for giving him massive teeth, and all will be right in the world again."

"Well, except that Voldemort is anxiously waiting to kill me in our time," Harry quipped.

Hermione laughed, not knowing exactly when joking about Voldemort had become okay, only that somehow, it had. "Yes, except for that."

.

~#~

.

1:26 P.M.

"I know you're out there, Granger."

She cracked open the door, stepped through, and hesitantly clicked it shut behind her.

"How did you know it was me?"

"I could see your hideously clunky shoes under the door."

"Ah, of course." She paused, looking down at the black Mary Jane's he spoke of. They weren't that bad.

"Come to add to your masterpiece?" he asked, gesturing toward his abnormally large teeth. "Some elephant ears to go with my chipmunk teeth, perhaps? Just do me a small favour, and stay away from the hair."

"I - I," Hermione spluttered, her pride going down her throat with about as much ease as a boulder. She swallowed. "I just, er, wanted to…apologize," she said, the last word little more than a breath. Her gaze lingered on her shoes.

"What?"

"I –" she looked up and was shocked to see that Malfoy's jaw had dropped. "You heard me," she said awkwardly, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Yes, hence the reason I'm staring at you like you've been invaded by a body snatcher."

"Staring, not glaring?"

He gave the ghost of a smile. "I don't know. Which one makes you more uncomfortable?"

She thought for a beat. "Glaring, I suppose."

"Then glaring. Definitely."

"You really do look ridiculous," she commented, laughing a little to herself as she examined her wand's work.

Malfoy scowled. "Yes, you're hilarious. Now, if you're really sorry, fix my teeth."

"Oh, alright." She shrunk his teeth back to normal size then took a seat on top of the vanity, across from Malfoy, whose long legs dangled gracefully in the tub. "I shouldn't have done that."

"No," he said frostily. "You shouldn't have."

"I guess I'm just — Malfoy, are you going to tell them? I feel like I'm lying, and it's awful. They're my best friends—"

"Tell them what?"

"About what was written in The Prophet — about you," she tacked on hastily. "I really think—"

"What did I say about the bloody Prophet?" he snarled, his voice low, sinister. She didn't miss the threat in his question. "Don't say one more word about it; no, don't even think about it—"

"But, Malfoy, you helped us! You're supposed to speak during the sodding parade! You—"

"Stop, Granger. Now."

"No." Her hands shot to her hips. Malfoy was acting like a child about this. It was time to re-enter reality, and if he refused, she was going to have to drag him into it kicking and screaming hexes in her direction. "I'm not going to let you stay in denial about it."

"You're not going to let me?" He swung his legs over the side of the tub and rose, sauntering over to the vanity with purposeful, almost predatory, steps. "Let me make something clear. I don't need a Mudblood's permission to do anything. You dirt-blooded lot don't deserve your magic, let alone my acquiescence."

"So what's your plan then?" she countered, refusing to give in, to let him win this fight. "Keep lying to yourself and hope it all goes away, close your eyes and expect that you'll be snug in the Slytherin dungeon next time you open them? I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but that's not going to happen."

"Whatever plan I may or may not have is none of your sodding business. So if you'll piss off now—"

"I came in here to apologize, and you're telling me to piss off?" she asked, aghast.

"That's exactly what I'm telling you." He ground his teeth together and nodded sharply toward the door, but Hermione wasn't done. She was far from done.

Why, oh why, had she let herself be swayed by Harry's words? Ron was right — Malfoy was Malfoy, and no matter what was written in a newspaper, nothing could change that. He was arrogant, cold, cruel, and a thousand other horrid things Hermione could spend hours naming.

"No wonder not even the people in your own house like you," she said maliciously, shaking her head. "Do you have a single shred of human decency? You know, perhaps The Prophet suffered a misprint, because I can't imagine you having enough morality to recognize right from wrong."

"And your side is the 'right' one in this scenario, I imagine?" he asked, expressionless.

"Well, my side doesn't torture and kill innocent Muggles or aim to wipe out the entire population of Muggleborn witches and wizards," she said dryly. "So yes, I would say we have the moral high ground here."

"You think the view is so fucking simple from your high horse, do you?" he yelled, his indifference gone as he gnashed his teeth. "You think there's right and there's wrong, and that's it? I expect you also think that people are either good or bad—"

"Because they are," she shouted back, as if it were obvious. "Sometimes a good person can make a mistake, but that doesn't mean they're not good! And the other way around too! You could try doing good, but you'll always be a bad person!"

"For someone who claims to be so bloody smart, you really are stupid."

Hermione screwed her eyes shut and sucked in long, slow breaths to fight the urge to give him teeth so long they hit the tiled floor of the bathroom. When she opened them again, Malfoy's face was mere inches from hers, the circles under his eyes deeper and an unbecoming shade of violet.

"The worst thing you can do is call someone good or bad," he whispered darkly. "Those kinds of labels are too heavy for a person. Don't you get it, Granger? We're just people, just trying to fucking survive."

"You talk about heavy labels…don't you get it, Malfoy?" she asked, turning away from him to look in the mirror. She studied her reflection and could feel him doing the same over her shoulder. "Your entire life has been about labels," she murmured. "You consider yourself better than me because you're a pureblood, and I'm a Mudblood. You think because you're a Slytherin, you're somehow more important than us lowly Gryffindors. Even your name — Malfoy. You drop it every chance you get, because you believe it means something to people when it's really nothing but a glorified label. And now, it doesn't mean anything. Your father made sure of that—"

"Don't you dare talk about my father," he roared, grabbing her shoulder and forcing her to look at him. "You know nothing—"

"I know enough," she spat, shoving his hand off. "I know he's in Azkaban. I was there when they captured him, but you know that already, don't you?"

Malfoy's face paled until it was almost translucent, and Hermione could have traced the spider veins running through his closed eyelids.

"Do you think the fact that he was in Slytherin keeps him warm at night?" she questioned callously, knowing she was treading in dangerous territory but unable to stop herself. Forget compassion. Malfoy had proven to be unworthy of it more than once today and infinite times over the past six years.

His eyes snapped opened and blazed with unadulterated abhorrence. "I'm warning you, Mudblood—"

"And speaking of blood," she went on, "do you think being a pureblood makes any difference to the Dementors? Do you think they treat him nicer than the Mudbloods?"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"Do you think they'll give a shit about the Malfoy heritage when they're out sucking souls? That is, if your father even has a soul for them to take."

"CONFRINGO!"

Hermione screamed as the glass of the mirror shattered behind her, the pieces flying into her skin and cutting her arms, neck, back…And it hurt. Merlin, it hurt, like a hundred little daggers were digging into her flesh, twisting deeper every time she tried to move. She watched as her blood streamed down from the places where she'd been sliced, dripping scarlet and thick onto the ivory countertop. The distinct iron-and-salt taste of blood caressed her tongue, and her head grew fuzzy, her vision blurred as the seconds ticked by in slow motion.

She heard a voice say, "Oh shit! What did I do?"

And then it all went black.

* * *

**a/n: **Ahhh, the classic cliffhanger. Don't hate me...

P.S. Franklin - Thank you! Your review made me laugh. Honestly, I can't take Draco fanfiction seriously _unless_ he's a douche.

-Cam


	6. Pieces

**VI**

"**They that stand high have many blasts to shake them,**

**And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces."**

—**_Richard III_**

_5:47 P.M._

"Hermione? Hermione?"

"Gin — Ginny?"

"Thank Godric!" Hermione felt a pair of arms wrap around her neck and opened her eyes upon being released. She was greeted with the sight of a crying Ginny Weasley, whose white school shirt had a significant amount of red splattered across it. Hermione's gut churned at the thought that those stains came from her blood.

"What happened?" she asked, attempting to sit up but grimacing in pain.

"Lay back," Ginny instructed, stuffing another two pillows behind Hermione's head and reminding her eerily of Molly. "There. Right, so what happened — well, you looked awful, really bad. There was so much blood..." Ginny trembled. "In any case, we were lucky we were in the Room of Requirement. A book on healing spells happened to be on the bookshelf — I guess the room knows who's in it — and I was able to find one that worked to heal the cuts after Harry pulled out the glass. You shouldn't have any scars, except maybe the first one or two I tried. I sort of botched those," she confessed, her cheeks inflamed. "Sorry, Hermione."

"Oh, Ginny, you have nothing to apologize for!" Hermione said, hugging her friend again. "Thank you so much. It couldn't have been pleasant work."

"Let's just say neither Harry nor I have a future as a Healer."

Hermione grinned. "I suppose Harry's sons have an accurate read on him then."

"Yeah, they do. It's so strange thinking about that," Ginny said, laughing.

"It is," Hermione agreed with a nod. "Where is Harry, by the way? And Ron?" She didn't even bother asking where _he_ was. She didn't care to know, only hoped that it was far away from the Room of Requirement, and she felt tears of white-hot rage prick her eyes. "So when can I murder Malfoy?" It was a breathless question as she fought to keep her traitorous tears at bay.

"Er, about that—" Harry's face came into focus, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"You already did it for me?"

"Well, no," he said, sitting carefully at the edge of the couch she was lying on.

"For Godric's sake, Harry, whatever it is you're skirting around, just spit it out!"

"Malfoy didn't cast that spell."

"WHAT?" She knew her jaw had gone slack, but she lost the ability to reattach it to her mouth. "But — who? Who else could have cast it?"

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," cried Ron, running over to the couch. His face was bright red, and his eyes were watery. "I swear, I didn't mean to — well, I meant to cast it, but I was aiming for the ferret! I thought he was going to try to hurt you, and — really, I'm sorry! Please forgive me!"

"Ron, just — just let me process a minute, okay?" Hermione whispered, her throat constricting.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Oh God, what was Malfoy doing to her? She had been ready to strangle him this morning, hex him this afternoon, and now she was asking when she could _Avada _him? And he hadn't even been the one to shoot the bloody spell! She shouldn't have goaded him like she had in the first place; she knew his father was a sensitive subject, and she'd stupidly said the absolute worst things she could think of in the heat of the argument.

Could Malfoy use an education on the truth about blood purity? Without a doubt. But Malfoy hadn't been the one in the wrong here — she had. And, oh Merlin, she would probably have to apologize again! The only thing he was guilty of was hiding a piece of his future and getting angry when she confronted him about it, and she, like usual, had taken things too far. And this time, her chances of getting her apology accepted were slim to none.

The worst part was she wouldn't even be able to blame him for it if he refused.

She didn't know why she even cared, why it bothered her that she wouldn't receive Malfoy's forgiveness, but it did, especially when she hadn't really secured it in the bathroom earlier, before it all went to hell.

"It's — it's okay, Ron. You didn't mean to," she said softly, relieving some of the guilt shown in the slump of Ron's shoulders, the hang of his head. He straightened and let out a sigh.

"I'm really sorry," he mumbled, now more embarrassed than apologetic.

"Just don't go throwing spells around unless you're positive it's necessary, okay? I can take care of myself when it comes to Malfoy."

She couldn't decide whether that was the truth or a lie. Two days ago, she would have no doubt in her mind that it was an honest statement, but now... Now her behaviour could hardly be classified as cool, calm, _or _collected. She, Hermione Granger, was a mess.

"I won't."

She wondered whether she would be able to keep the same promise.

.

~#~

.

_6:06 P.M._

Draco had never hated anyone more than he hated Hermione Granger.

He hated her for being a Gryffindor.

He hated her for being a Mudblood.

But most of all? He hated her for being _her_.

Draco unclenched and clenched his fists, breathing shallowly through his nose as he remembered the mirror shattering, the raining glass that found refuge in Granger's skin. He'd just barely managed to avoid getting cut as well.

And then there was the blood. It wasn't brown, wasn't dirty. Why the fuck hadn't it been dirty? It'd been everywhere too, in crimson streams and puddles all over the counter and the floor. Draco had watched as Weasley characteristically ran off with his tail between his gangly legs to get the Weaselette and Potter rather than actually doing shit to help Granger. Sodding coward.

Draco didn't wait for the Weasel to reappear with the others; instead, he'd fled as fast as his legs could carry him away from the bathroom in the Room of Requirement and found himself at the lake, where he'd slept for a few hours under the shade of a tree. It had been nice, the escape slipping into unconsciousness brought him, but all too soon, the autumnal chill in the evening air woke him and forced him to return the warm refuge provided by the Scottish castle.

All the way back, he was plagued by thoughts of _her._

_You consider yourself better than me because you're a pureblood, and I'm a Mudblood._

She'd looked almost fragile — her reflection in the mirror. Breakable as its glass, but just as sharp as well. Her eyes were warm honey in colour like always, but there was an edge to them he had only seen once before — when she'd slapped him third year — and it was animalistic in nature, untamed and brutal. Only this time, she had attacked with her words instead of her hand.

And it was worse. Merlin, it was so much worse that he'd gladly have exchanged a hundred slaps just to be spared that conversation with the Mudblood. And that's who she was, Draco reminded himself. _What_ she was. She didn't deserve her magic; none of her kind did, and he tried to smile as he pictured a world without them, without _her_, in it.

He was grateful to be invisible to the students roaming the corridors, because he knew the smile he produced was about as sane as one of Peeves's unsettling grins.

_You think because you're a Slytherin, you're somehow more important than us lowly Gryffindors._

Draco spotted a bench on the edge of the hallway and sunk into it, shifting clumsily into a cross-legged position and rubbing some heat back into his arms. He leaned his head against the wall and studied the lurkers, analysing each one that passed on their way to dinner, which they were — he checked the face of the Goblin-made, silver watch he kept in his pocket — going on fifteen minutes late for.

Blue tie. Ravenclaw, then. Stocky build, dark hair, and the jutted chin and wrinkled nose that made him look like he had just smelled a pile of dragon dung. Typical snotty Ravenclaw.

Green scarves came next, two girls this time. Both had proud lines to their faces and walked with strength. Neither smiled nor spoke, which only served to create a greater contrast to the Gryffindors that followed — a boy and girl who were laughing and smiling brilliantly, telling jokes Draco didn't understand. It was a disconcerting juxtaposition, the emerald and scarlet.

It felt like things were the same, and he didn't know why that disturbed him. Wasn't this a good thing, that Slytherins were what they had always been — prideful, powerful, and serious?

Perhaps the Slytherins he'd watch pass by in the hall had rattled him because he saw himself in them. He could scarcely recall the sound of his own laugh, and he broke into a grin so rarely now that it felt like he was stretching dormant muscles when he did, coaxing them out of an endless hibernation. He actually envied the Gryffindors in that sense, and he despised both them and himself for it.

Draco walked, hands curled into fists, into the Great Hall. He needed some sort of distraction, and his feet carried him to the Slytherin table. His usual place of dining didn't feel particularly comforting, but then again, the Mudblood _had_ been right about one thing. Friends were few and far between; the only people he could even think about categorizing as such were Pansy, who also happened to be insane and entirely too clingy for his tastes, Blaise Zabini, and Theo Nott, who he'd gotten to know better this year, seeing as Crabbe and Goyle didn't score high enough on their O.W.L.s to take Advanced Potions with Slughorn.

Strangely enough, it had never bothered Draco before. He had been an only child, after all, and was used to being left alone, but now, with the impending war and his mission weighing on his shoulders, he saw the advantage of having friends to surround yourself with. Friends are both shield and sword — they protect and distract you from the problems in your life, and they're also willing to beat the shit out of anyone or anything that threatens you, which the Gryffindors had made all too clear earlier today.

Fuck them. Fuck _Granger._

Pinching the bridge of his nose in agitation, Draco paid no mind to where he was placing his still-freezing arse on the Slytherin bench. He didn't care how at this point; he just wanted, _needed_, distraction from thinking of her.

"Hey, Jacob, you hear about Lysander and the Mudblood?" one of the female students whispered conspiratorially, a thin smile playing on her lips. "I say we teach both of them a lesson."

"Please, I bloody _saw_ it," Jacob said, sticking his tongue out in disgust. He flipped his too-long, chestnut hair out of his face and lowered his gravelly voice. "It seems she's forgotten her place in the gutter."

"And Lysander's forgotten that purebloods are supposed to be at the top," the girl put in. Her coal-coloured eyes shone with enmity.

"And I have just the way to remind him," said Jacob, smirking.

Draco felt a rush of relief. Finally, something was making sense in this universe. Finally, some_one _was making sense. He didn't know who these students were, but he felt more akin to them in seconds than he ever had to the Gryffindors in all the years he'd known them. Blood purity still mattered nineteen years later.

Thank Salazar for that.

"What do you suggest?" asked the black-haired witch, baring large white teeth in a feral leer.

"I, for one, suggest the two of you shut the hell up."

Draco's stomach flipped with the recognition of Scorpius' voice. Sure enough, the young Malfoy was standing authoritatively in front of Jacob and his female companion, a harsh scowl on his face. James stood by his side, looking equally incensed.

"Was it something I said?" the girl asked with false naivety, inspecting her manicured nails.

"Isn't it always, Flint?" Scorpius sneered. "You're Hogwarts' resident shit-stirrer, and you never seem to know when to shut your mouth."

"You better watch _your_ mouth, Scorpius, or—"

"You think any threat you pull out of your fat arse is going to scare me?" He edged closer to Flint, whom Draco assumed was the spawn of Marcus Flint, the former Slytherin Quidditch captain and one of the most uncouth people Draco had ever had the misfortune to meet. Scorpius' obvious disdain for Flint's daughter only served to make her doubly despicable, and his previous feeling of kinship was all but forgotten. "I'm a Malfoy—"

"Which doesn't mean what it used to," she spat.

Draco sharply took a breath.

_Even your name — Malfoy. You drop it every chance you get, because you believe it means something to people when it's really nothing but a glorified label_. _And now, it doesn't mean anything._

Granger's voice was swimming in his thoughts again, and his mental stability, as per usual when it came to her, took a nosedive into the deep end.

His head started throbbing.

"You're right," Scorpius agreed quietly, the menace pulsating through his voice. "It means _more _than it used to. I'm a _Malfoy_," he repeated, and the Flint girl recoiled. "My family is more powerful than ever, and you would do well not to forget that."

"Your father ruined your family's name when he—"

"Don't you _dare _talk about my father," growled Scorpius, the same phrase Draco had said to Granger only hours ago.

It was strange, hearing the words come from his own son and not knowing why he was saying them. Draco wondered whether Scorpius had suffered through his faults while terrorizing anyone who had the audacity to point them out.

Draco wondered whether he was Lucius.

And for one of the first times in his life, Draco wondered whether he wanted to be.

His meditations ended when Potter's kid got in Flint's face. "Especially when _yours _fought for Voldemort."

"Oh, that's rich. Bringing up something that happened nineteen years ago." Flint snorted, tossing her dark curtain of hair over her shoulder. She pretended to draw a lightning bolt-shaped scar on James Potter's forehead and cackled when he jerked away. "Your family still living in the past, James? Do you tell stories every night about how your dear old dad beat him with a damn Expelliarmus?"

"My dad—"

"Got lucky," she hissed. "And you and your family walk around expecting everyone to kiss your feet for it. Well I'm—"

"A right bitch," said James.

"On _very_ thin ice," added Scorpius. "Almost as thin as the Black Lake's, I'd say," he mused, his every word calculated. "Wouldn't you, James?"

James nodded, a grin spreading on his face. "Definitely."

"You wouldn't dare!" she protested, her eyes bulging into ovals of anthracite.

"Oh I can assure you, Flint, that I would. Leave Lysander and his girlfriend alone." With that, Scorpius and James pivoted on their heels and headed for the Gryffindor table, leaving a stuttering Flint in their wake.

"You — you didn't even _try_ to defend me, you arsehole!" she shrieked hysterically, punching Jacob in the arm. "They basically said that they're going to drop me into the Black Lake! Do you have _any _idea what's in the lake? Merpeople! A giant squid!"

"What did you expect me to do, Violet? Don't you have Defence Against the Dark Arts with those two? I heard they're insanely good—"

"But you're a fifth year!" she argued, her voice growing shriller.

"Yeah, a fifth year who doesn't want to mess with the son of Draco Malfoy or the son of Harry Potter, and that's before you even mention their mums," he said, swishing his floppy hair. "Sorry, Vi."

"You suck!"

"Say hi to the giant squid for me," he said, waving as she stomped off.

"Well that was a bloody odd conversation." Draco's head snapped up. Potter stood against a column, arms crossed and glasses perched precariously on his slightly-crooked nose.

"What are you doing down here?" Draco asked without preamble, wary of Potter's appearance. Where Prince Potter went, other Gryffindors soon followed, including a bushy-haired, doe-eyed Gryffindor Draco had no intention of seeing as long as he could successfully avoid her.

"Hermione thinks you hate her."

"I would hope that she's known that for six years," said Draco. He smirked, but it soon slipped when Potter made his way to the bench and casually plopped down beside him.

"She feels terrible, and she knows she was wrong to say what she did."

"Granger admitting she was wrong about something?" Draco asked mockingly. "Someone better alert _The Prophet._"

To his surprise, Potter actually released a chuckle. "Yeah, well it tells you how much of wreck she is."

"She should be," said Draco.

Potter nodded absently, and the silence stretched for a minute before he opened his mouth again. "Did you know that Sirius Black was my godfather?"

"What the hell, Potter? Where did that come from?"

"It relates; I swear," he said, smiling a little and watching his hands as he cracked his knuckles.

"Well, go on. I don't have all night," Draco grumbled, throwing up an arm in a brusque gesture. But he _did _have the entire night. He had an eternity if they never figured out how to get the hell out of this universe, which seemed to find a sick sort of amusement in screwing with his head, Potter's strange comradery being no exception.

"Sirius Black was my godfather." The Gryffindor's voice was distant and raspy, guarded like he was suppressing his emotions. "And he spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. After he escaped, the Ministry put a ten-thousand galleon price on his head and told everyone that he was evil, the worst wizard in the world after Voldemort. And they ate it up, let themselves be spoon fed their beliefs by the Ministry — hell, _I _even believed it at first — and he turned out to be one of the best men I've ever known."

"Does this sappy sodfest have a point, Potter?" Draco asked, his lips twitching in discomfort, though he wasn't quite sure why.

"He once told me," Potter said softly, his voice quivering. "That the world isn't separated into good people and Death Eaters." He paused and cleared his throat. "What you said to Hermione about labelling people good or bad...it's true. And I...shouldn't label you, because there's a lot I don't know."

Draco's eyes narrowed into silver slits. "She told you, didn't she? About _The Prophet_?"

He shook his head. "Not directly, no...She asked for the blanket off her bed, and the paper sort of...rolled out of it. She was upset that I'd found it, said you should've been the one to tell."

So now Potter knew. In reality, it substantially ameliorated his shit situation, though he was curious whether Potter realized the extent of the accuracy of his Death Eater statement. At least Draco would no longer have to endure the torment of revealing what was written about his future self to the Gryffindors, assuming Potter had already shared the news with the others. Draco asked if he had.

"Yeah, you should have seen Ron's face. It was the same face he made when he realized his slug spell backfired."

Draco offered a half-smile. "I would have paid to see that."

"In all serious though, Malfoy, we hope you'll come back to the room," said Potter, sliding off the bench. "Do you...do you think you can forgive Hermione?"

"I—" Draco squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. The whisper of a mirage begged to enter his mind, and he let it in, let in the image of Granger's face from the mirror — strands of hair sticking up like brown porcupine quills, a cut on her rosy bottom lip where she periodically gnawed it, a fairy dusting of freckles on her dainty nose, and those sodding golden eyes, scintillating with fierce determination. Draco didn't lift his lids when he answered.

"I think she should probably not ask me tonight."

* * *

**a/n: **Surprise! Was anyone suspecting that Ron was the one who cast the spell? I also hope the appearance of the next gen fit nicely... Either way, hope you liked the chap, and as always, please review!

xx Cam


	7. Hope

**VII**

**"True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings."**

**_—Richard III_**

_October 18, 2017, 8:01 A.M._

It was a minute after eight, and Hermione was unsurprisingly awake. Her moral compass had pointed everywhere but north as of late, yet somehow her body clock was in perfect working order.

She threw off her bedcovers and tiptoed into the kitchen, where she put a kettle of tea on the stove and began looking for something resembling breakfast food. The previous morning had, like their first few mornings here, been spent eavesdropping in the Great Hall, where even the lowest of whispers and slyest of glances had resulted in only petty rumours — _"I heard she got detention for a month!" "I snuck into his dorm last night." "He's asking a fourth year from Ravenclaw to Hogsmeade!"_ — completely irrelevant snippets of information. Hermione didn't partake in that sort of conversation even in her own time. She was suddenly reminded of Lavender and Parvati and grabbed the door to the pantry to keep herself steady.

She almost missed them — their relentless chatter, the overwhelming scent of hair products and perfumes, the cluttered copies of _Witch Weekly _in every nook and cranny of the dormitory (though they never could seem to find a single textbook) — and realized just how much she would miss not only them but everyone in her life if she couldn't figure out a way home. The Weasley family would be torn apart by their losses, of course, and her own parents — God, she couldn't bear to think of them, or she would turn into a crying mess.

_ It's fine. Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be—_

"Granger."

_ Oh no._

"Malfoy," she practically whispered, ducking her head inside the food storage cabinet. Under the pretence of searching for something to eat, she fingered boxes of dried pasta, crackers, and — finally — cereal, taking much longer than was necessary in the hope that he would leave. She'd been atypically emotional for most of the morning, and she wasn't optimistic that her behaviour would change for the better with Malfoy around.

"Do you have anything to say to me?"

_ Yes. Possibly. _

"I — er — would you like some cereal?"

_Well that was bloody eloquent. A wonderful start to reconciliation._

Feeling heat begin to flare in her cheeks, she held the box of Coco Pops in front of her face to avoid making eye contact entirely. The conversation was, as expected, going terribly, and that was putting it mildly.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I have no idea." She reluctantly lowered the box to the kitchen counter.

"What are those anyway?" Malfoy asked, and she almost believed that he cared to know the answer.

"You haven't been around in a couple days, so I'm not particularly keen to make small talk," Hermione said quietly, dumping her cereal into a bowl. The puffs of chocolate were chased by a splash of milk, and she shoved the mixture into her mouth with a spoon before she could say anything else idiotic. She wasn't quite sure what she _could _say that wouldn't be construed as either a pathetic attempt at an apology or a pathetic attempt to _avoid _apologies altogether. The time spent without Malfoy had undoubtedly been more peaceful — she was more uncomfortable after a minute or two with Malfoy than the whole of the time she'd spent with the Gryffindors — and yet, she'd continuously looked for him, anxiously awaiting the moment he'd come round to verbally assault her just as she'd done to him. She'd almost... looked forward to it. Not to any expression of cruelty; of course not that. But there was a moment she'd thought would come, a moment in which her words would take effect, and he would recognize the fallacious nature of his views on Muggles and Muggleborn witches and wizards as he slung insults at her simply because of her blood, of the way she was born. That moment, _that _epiphanic moment, was the reason she kept the Marauder's Map by her side. It was the reason she'd periodically watched the door, willing it to open to a cloud of black robes and shimmer of contrasting blonde hair. It was the reason she kept a small grain of hope that Malfoy would return, if not changed completely, at least meaningfully altered.

"Definitely not keen to make small talk," she repeated, bringing another spoonful of cereal to her mouth.

"Have it your way then." He stood and moved deliberately toward her, his silver eyes sharp and predatory, before swerving in the direction of the stove, where the tea was steaming from the kettle. Hermione watched silently as he poured two cups and nodded in silent acceptance when he offered one to her.

She stared at her tea for a moment, waiting for Malfoy to drink first.

"You must be joking," he said dryly, rolling his eyes. "If I were going to off you, I would be a hell of a lot more creative than poisoning your fucking Earl Grey."

"You have many ideas then?" she asked.

"Oh, thousands," he said, his tea still untouched. "But before you think you're too special, many also involve the Boy-Who-Won't-Die and his ginger lover."

"Do you spend all of your free time planning a triple homicide?"

"Of course not," he said, a corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. "Only when I need something to get me in an excellent mood."

They were silent for a moment, watching each other carefully for any sign of movement in the direction of their respective teacups. Hermione noticed that Draco had chosen green for himself and given her a particularly revolting shade of mauve, likely an intentional choice. Everything Malfoy did seemed intentional.

He leaned back on the counter behind him, his delicate teacup out of reach.

"You said you would prefer not to make small talk—"

"Your plans to kill me hardly qualify as _small talk_—"

"—so I suggest you employ some of that bravery you bloody Gryffindors are supposed to possess, and—"

"If you think that argument is going to work, you are mistaken—"

"Then I suppose you'll have to trust that I meant what I said about poisoning being a terrible waste of your murder," he said, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

_Fine, then._

Giving him the dirtiest and most disdainful look she could manage, Hermione lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip.

"Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?" asked Malfoy, finally drinking from his own cup. "Besides, a deep discussion isn't quite right without a spot of tea, is it?"

"I suppose not."

"That's what my mother said six years ago when she gave me the talk about how little witches and wizards are made."

Hermione choked on her drink, and tea dribbled down her chin and into her bowl, ruining her breakfast.

Malfoy smirked. "Well, well, Granger, no wonder my comment about the chastity belt upset you so."

"Shut up. You made me spoil my cereal."

"It isn't very fun when people make you do things you don't want to do, hm?"

"What are you referring to, Malfoy? I thought we were skipping this part of the conversation," Hermione said, her bowl clattering against her spoon as they simultaneously hit the bottom of the sink.

"I have a proposition." Malfoy grabbed the box of cereal and poured some into his hand before tentatively placing a few chocolate pieces on his tongue.

"Okay."

"You know, it isn't very intelligent of you to agree to my proposition before you've heard what it is."

"But I wasn't—"

"And yet, I'm glad you did." He threw another handful of Coco Pops into his mouth. "These Choco Poofs or whatever they're called are fairly decent, actually."

"Malfoy! Have you gone insane?"

"What would give you that impression?" he asked. "I'm simply trying a new tactic."

"A new—"

"Tactic, yes. To deal with all of you people." She narrowed her eyes and studied him. His hair was sticking up in white-blond tufts, his eyes were bloodshot and slightly crazed, and he had a small grin on his face.

"You didn't sleep last night."

"I haven't slept in a few nights. I was busy considering possible tactics." She shook her head and bit her lip to keep from smiling, though it also masked a hint of concern. Going without sleep was a terrible idea for anyone, and Malfoy without sleep was potentially disastrous.

"I don't understand you at all," Hermione said. "One second you're making jokes, and the next you're acting like a bloody lunatic."

"Would you prefer me to act like a bloody lunatic right now? I'm sure I can think of a few things to be angry with you about."

At this, she frowned. "And now I know exactly what you're referring to." Her voice deflated with a heaving sigh. This was it — her second apology to Malfoy in the span of only a few days. It could hardly go much worse than the first, but then again, Malfoy was one of the least predictable people she knew. She took one last sip of tea before speaking. "I am truly sorry for the way I spoke to you the other day. I was out of line—"

"Out of line? Granger, out of line was growing my teeth to the length of elephants' tusks. On Sunday, you fucking sprinted outside the lines and never looked back." He laughed, a guttural, sarcastic sound.

"I — I am so sorry," Hermione offered again, unsure what else she could say. It was and would never be good enough, but sorry was all there was.

"You're sorry? Oh, well bloody brilliant! Thank you, Salazar, because Granger has said she's sorry!"

"Malfoy, honestly—"

"Do you want to know the best of it, though? The best of it is that I couldn't get a single sodding word you said out of my head. Not the day you said them, not the past few days, not even last night." A vein throbbed in his forehead, blue and green pulsating against the white of his skin, and she realized that his planning most likely had to do with ways of dealing with _her_. "What you said — shit, Granger, it's like you've been saying it to me over and over again. Relentlessly."

"And did you come to any...conclusions?" she asked carefully, as Malfoy tugged at his already unkempt hair.

"I'm assuming you're really asking whether or not I had some sort of Kairos moment in which I realized that deep down, I've always thought the Order was right," he said snidely. "And that Potter is a swell bloke I'd be honoured to fight for."

Hermione released a breath through her nose. "Well I refuse to believe that you remain obdurate. If you were positive about your beliefs, you wouldn't be nearly as bothered about the things I said."

"Scorpius was defending Muggle-borns yesterday," Malfoy blurted, and Hermione realized two things — one, that he used the word Muggle-borns in place of Mudbloods, and two — Malfoy really was alone here if it was her he was choosing to tell.

"And how did you...feel about that?" she asked, imagining Malfoy lying on a couch, his head reclined on a fluffy pillow as he told her about his feelings. She would sit there, perched gracefully in a chair, a yellow notepad and pen in her hand as she meticulously scribbled everything he said and made all sorts of psychoanalytic observations. She'd never been to therapy herself, but a clear image formed in her head regardless.

"You know, If Trelawney had asked me to give a hundred different versions of the way the future would be, I never would have come up with this one," said Malfoy. "First off, Potter would have been dead in most of them." He smiled, his lips pressed tightly together.

_Subject employs sarcastic and joking manner as defence mechanism — also works to avoid the question._

"Like I said before, people can change. Maybe you did."

"But to change this much?" He laughed humourlessly. "I don't know, Granger. It's too much."

"I'm going to ask you something now, but I need you to promise not to get mad," Hermione said, picking at skin on her fingers.

"Fine."

"Growing up, were you...happy?" He looked at her, surprise etched across his features — eyes wide, brows up, mouth open.

"What do you — why would you ask me that?"

_Childhood experiences shape an individual as well as unconsciously influence actions._

"Well, I just thought..." She trailed off, collected herself, and started again. "I just thought that maybe, if you're happy here in the future, it could explain why you switched sides — to be happy." He was staring at her stonily, his mouth in a line and his eyes strangely blank, and she babbled on. "Wouldn't it be fascinating to see ourselves in this universe? Terrifying but fascinating. I mean, I know I—"

"Remember that proposition you agreed to earlier?" he cut in.

"I agreed to no such—"

"Granger," he said simply, and for some reason, she stopped. "Remember?"

"Yes," Hermione said.

"Forget about it. I've changed my mind." With that, he took his cup of tea and walked out of the Room of Requirement.

And she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

.

~#~

.

_8:39 A.M._

To say his conversation with Granger was not what Draco anticipated would be an understatement. The plan: to solidify a proposition in which Granger agreed to mutual avoidance, which they'd been practicing for the past few days. The result: exactly the opposite. She was more involved in his future, and thereby his present, than ever, since he'd felt the need to reveal Scorpius' crusade against blood supremacists.

It was her eyes, he decided. In the dull kitchen light, they'd reflected an ingenuousness that he wanted to preserve rather than break into splintered pieces of despair and hopelessness. He knew he'd taken away some of that naivety before — the first time he'd called her a Mudblood in second year came to mind — but now was different. Now he was the only Dark object submerged in a pool of Light, and he could feel it gradually dripping into his bloodstream. Every hour he didn't spend trying to destroy Potter, every minute he questioned his lifelong beliefs, every second Granger looked at him with hope in her eyes, was an hour, minute, second that light streamed into his shadowy soul and cobwebs were dusted out of his husk of a conscience.

He could trust her, couldn't he? No, that was impossible — her eyes. He could trust her eyes, and _that _was why he told her about Scorpius. It was incredible, really, that for such a know-it-all she hadn't once commented on the irony — that he, who had bullied those of impure blood for years, had a son who defended them, but that was Granger. He supposed the lightness she possessed manifested itself in more than just the spark in her eyes.

Perturbed by this train of thought, Draco decided to do some investigating. Things couldn't possibly get worse — he was already on Potter's side, which was a worst case scenario in itself. And yet...

_Alive,_ Draco reminded himself. _Alive, and not in Azkaban._ It was as much as he could have hoped for in a world where the Dark Lord had been defeated. _Scorpius. Wife. Alive._

Things weren't exactly tragic. What was tragic, however, was Neville Longbottom, who was in the process of tripping over his own feet and smashing a potted plant in the process.

"Oh no! So sorry!" he squeaked toward the students around him, most of whom were ignoring him and simply avoiding the mess. Longbottom, his slightly-pudgy face coloured pink, then attempted to brush the dirt back into a pot that was only partially intact.

Well, he hadn't changed a bit.

"Professor Longbottom? You okay?"

"Fine, just a little bubotuber accident," said Longbottom, smiling in his typical self-deprecating manner. "Don't get too close, though, or—"

"I'll break out in painful blisters," Scorpius finished. "I know."

"Right. It's easy to forget who your mum is," said the Herbology professor. "You look just like your dad."

Draco felt the side of his mouth lift in pride, but it drooped just as quickly as it rose. Longbottom hadn't lost his smile the entire time he was speaking, even when mentioning Draco himself. It couldn't be — he was friends with Longbottom? Or at least civil toward him, which was arguably just as much of a hit to his self-respect.

_Scorpius. Wife. Alive._ Draco pushed the mantra back to the forefront of his thoughts — for now, he needed to remember what was important and not concern himself with the details.

"She says hello, by the way," Scorpius said, flicking his wand at the limp plant and disfigured pieces of clay, which immediately flew back together and solidified. The bubotuber plant, thick, black, and squirming like a slug, inserted itself into the fixed pot and was then sprinkled with the spilled dirt. "Dad too."

Longbottom beamed. "Well, I'm looking forward to seeing them soon. Are they still planning to come to Hogsmeade before Christmas break?"

"As far as I know." Scorpius picked up the mended plant and handed it to his professor, careful not to come into contact with any of its enormous pustules, which, when split open, emitted boil-causing, chartreuse liquid. "Hey, Professor, would you mind if I walked with you on your way to the greenhouses? I actually wanted to ask you about something."

"Sure, Scorp," said Longbottom, his breathing laboured and his forehead glistening with sweat. "I should probably, uh, Wingardium Leviosa this, shouldn't I?"

"Probably."

Longbottom put the plant down, raised his wand, and gave it a swish-and-flick, but it remained on the stone floor. He repeated the motion — swish-and-flick, swish-and-flick — but had no luck getting it in the air, even when saying the spell aloud.

"Stupid spell," he muttered. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

"I think it's your pronunciation if you don't mind me saying so," Scorpius said. "Here, try saying it like this — Levi-O-sa."

His professor nodded, a look of determination crossing his features. Draco backed away cautiously — Longbottom with a wand was bad enough without a pustule-causing plant involved.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Slowly but surely, the pot floated up. Longbottom, grinning, slapped Scorpius on the back. "Thanks!"

"Sure, Professor."

Draco returned to close proximity as the duo made their way toward the greenhouses, the buildings' glass shining with the cool light of autumn. No, but it wasn't just that. _Everything_ gleamed with a strange coldness, like the chilled atmosphere itself was casting a filmy greyness over the grounds. It felt unfamiliar, wrong, and out of place.

"A storm's coming, isn't it?" Scorpius asked, his hands in his pockets and his gaze far away.

The way Longbottom grimaced, Draco assumed the question had more than one connotation. "Yeah, looks that way," he said. "The Ministry's been trying to seem like they've got it together, the parade and monument and all, but the people who really know what's happening—"

"Like my dad."

"Like your dad," Longbottom agreed. "And your mum, and Harry, and most of the old Order members, really. We know that it's only a matter of time."

"Before the Death Eaters attack."

"Right again, as much as I wish you weren't."

No. _No_ — this couldn't be happening. But it had to be, didn't it?

Fucking hell.

Things were worse. They were a hundred, a _million_ times worse.

Draco could picture them clearly — the Death Eaters. He saw the black cloaks that trailed behind them like the River Styx, the silver skull masks that hid their equally-disturbing faces, but mostly he saw his family. Aunt Bellatrix, her hair hanging in thick, black wires down her back, her pointed teeth poking out from behind her lips as she sneered at her victims. His uncles — tall, dark, and lethal. His mother, her pale face a mask of indifference that concealed her fear. And his father...

Was Lucius even alive? He wasn't exactly the type to go gently, but Granger had mentioned Dementors, and Lucius receiving the Dementor's Kiss wasn't a particularly outlandish theory. But if he was alive (and retained any semblance of sanity or a soul), Draco knew he would serve the Dark, just like every other remaining Death Eater.

And they would be after Draco, all of them. A defected Death Eater didn't live to tell the tale. He must be the first exception, the first one to survive the switch to the Light, but now... Now, they would be determined that he learn the rule.

"Dad's worried," said Scorpius, and Draco didn't doubt it for a second. He could already feel the terror clawing its way into his body, slowly shredding his guts apart. "Mum too, but they won't tell me anything. They just whisper about it behind my back and smile these awful, fake smiles at me whenever I walk in the room."

"They just want to protect you, Scorp."

Scorpius rolled his eyes. "Yeah, bloody job well done there. I feel so protected having no knowledge whatsoever about the army of Death Eaters that wants to kill me."

"That's not fair—"

"No, Professor, what's not fair is having both of my parents hiding things from me," said Scorpius, kicking a lone pebble down the path. "I could fight." At Longbottom's stern look, Scorpius tried again. "I could help, okay? I could, I don't know, do research, something _useful_."

Longbottom sighed, wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. "I could possibly — and do _not _tell them I planned this — I could possibly bring it up at Hogsmeade," he said, already appearing extremely uncomfortable with the idea.

"Really? Thank you so much, Professor." Scorpius leaned down and picked up the pebble he'd been kicking. Tossing it into the air, he pulled out his wand and destroyed it in a burst of red light. "Even if it's not much, I have to do _something_ to try to protect my family."

"I — I get that, Scorp, I do. But you have to trust that your parents know what they're doing." Longbottom sighed again and closed his eyes briefly. "Just try to have faith in their judgment."

"Faith," Scorpius scoffed, his blond hair glinting as he shook his head. "Right. And I expect you'll have me believe that everything is going to be okay?"

"I would, because it _will_ be okay. Probably not in the beginning, and there will be some definite rough patches in the middle," Longbottom said with a small chuckle. "But I believe it will be. You know, faith — that's the best weapon you'll ever have. It can never be taken away from you — it's infinite, unkillable. There's nothing your enemy will hate more, be more afraid of, than your faith." Swinging open the door to the first greenhouse, Longbottom turned back to offer Scorpius one last smile. "You really should interrupt me when I get going like that."

And as usual, Draco disagreed with the Gryffindor.

* * *

**a/n:** So as you may have noticed, I've decided to Brit-pick my way through the story because I'm weird and felt like it. On another note, thanks again to everyone who reviewed the last chap - it was the most I've gotten on a single chapter so far! Please continue to R&R - I expect you'll have feelings about this new development with the Death Eaters...

xx Cam


	8. Folly

**VIII**

**"If thou remember'st not the slightest folly**

**That ever love did make thee run into,**

**Thou hast not loved."**

**—As You Like It**

_October 18, 2017, 12:11 P.M._

"And you — you're sure about this?" Hermione asked, attempting to keep the scepticism out of her voice. "That the Death Eaters are rising again?"

"Yes, I'm bloody sure!" Malfoy was pacing, intermittently shoving his hands in his pockets and taking them out again, his long, pale fingers balled into fists. They were like piano keys, Hermione decided, as his voice faded into the background, overpowered by the pops and hisses of the fire and her own thoughts. They were narrow and white and — she could admit it — kind of mesmerising, lengthening and retracting, appearing and disappearing as they were into the black cloth of his trousers. "Are you listening to anything I'm saying?"

"Wh-what?"

"Brilliant," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "Come on, Granger, you're my best chance of getting out of here. You need to understand what the hell's going on!"

"Okay, just give me a minute." Hermione walked over to the nightstand next to her bed and drew from it parchment, ink, and a quill. "For notes," she explained to Malfoy, whose eyes were blazing with impatient fury.

"I know what that shit is for, but you're moving at the speed of one of Weasley's upchucked slugs," he said, his breath coming out in a huff. She sat next to him on the couch and curled her feet underneath her legs.

"Well, it's not as if we can do much about this at the moment, Malfoy," said Hermione. "In case you haven't noticed, no one can see or hear us!"

"Your support is fucking astounding—"

"_But_," she added, "I'll make notes about everything we've learned thus far, and then we can talk to the others and see if they've overheard anything important that we should add to the list."

"I tell you that the Death Eaters are reforming and planning to attack us, and you're scribbling out notes," Malfoy said, the words sounding like more of a question of disbelief than a request for clarification.

"How are we supposed to come up with a plan if we don't even know what we know?" Hermione asked, standing up and putting her hands on her hips in her usual defensive stance. Malfoy copied her motions, only instead, his arms were crossed.

"Well, I know that sodding notes aren't going to do shit—"

"And you know so much, do you? Here's what _I_ know! You are a complete prick—"

"—not a class, Granger! If we fail, that probably means we're going to die! And—"

"—never consider anyone's opinions but your own! That's downright stupid—"

"—chance to fix things before they go too far! Maybe this is the reason we were sent here! So we can fucking save ourselves and everyone else who needs saving!" Malfoy sucked in a breath, his chest heaving, and Hermione could only stare at him.

_Everyone else..._

Yes, some of his thoughts had to be motivated by self-preservation, but he'd said "everyone else," hadn't he? That included Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs, and of course, there were Muggle-borns in all three of those houses... He was going to join the Order, or he had to be considering it at the very least, hadn't he? Perhaps that was misconstruing his words, taking them too far (as she was admittedly prone to doing), but they certainly weren't meaningless. They meant _something_, and she realised with a pang that they meant something to _her_. She was invested, emotionally and irrevocably, in the redemption of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione's mouth opened and closed more than once, and she felt like a fish searching for water as it flopped pathetically on a rocking boat. No sooner had that image entered her brain than she was swaying, her weight shifting from one side to the other in an imaginary current.

"Granger? You look terrible, not like that's unusual, but still..." Malfoy's voice got quieter, and he took a few tentative steps toward her before reaching out a hand — those fingers, those piano key fingers — slowly stretching it toward her face, and tipping up her chin. "You're not going to vomit on me, are you?"

"Do you play the piano?" Hermione asked before she could register that her mouth was even open again. Malfoy's eyes were boring into hers, and she could see tiny bits of dark blue in the grey irises, like a painter's afterthought: _just a bit more colour..._

"Do I what?" he asked, his hand still on her chin. His fingers were warmer than she imagined them, and oh God, had she really thought about what they would feel like? She supposed she must have, somewhere between Beethoven and Rubinstein, because this was definitely not what she expected — they were warm and soft, and it was almost like there was a current running through them, its electricity turning her veins to wires.

"I, um, I can't imagine you would," she said, heat flaring in her cheeks as she jerked her head away. As his hand fell to his side, she felt an embarrassingly strong streak of loss shimmy its way through her gut. "It's a Muggle thing."

"Right," said Malfoy. "Then I suppose I wouldn't know."

"I'll just get started on the notes then," she said, not looking at him, knowing that her sentence would be punctuated by an uncomfortably long silence, which was the exact opposite of what she needed. Silence, while smothering everything outside of you in a thick coat of nothingness, amplifies every thought that crosses your mind, every breath you take in, every thump of your heart. It's a law of matter to fill up space, as much as possible, and it must be a law of human nature to attempt to fill up silence, to saturate the air with sound, even if you're the only one that can hear it. Humans, above all, really can't stand the idea of nothingness. So they compensate with the thoughts, the breaths, and the beats of their hearts, all of which crescendo until it's not silent anymore, not even close.

Hermione's own heart was beating like hummingbirds' wings, and Merlin, she wasn't really attracted to Malfoy, was she? That would be mad, Mundungus Fletcher mad, but the way her body had reacted to him... No. It was impossible (except she was a terrible liar, especially when it came to lying to herself).

"Granger?"

She jumped as a whir of outside noises re-entered her consciousness — the fire, the squeaks and scrapes of dishes as they magically washed themselves in the sink, Malfoy's slightly hoarse voice. "What?"

"You do need ink to write out those notes, don't you? Unless you're using invisible ink, in which case, do proceed," said Malfoy, sounding amused.

She looked down. Sure enough, all of the words she thought she'd written were unmistakably absent from the piece of parchment. "Oh."

Malfoy grinned, and she placed herself in full-blown denial mode, because there was no way, absolutely no way, she could find his ferret face anything but hideous (except for it wasn't, not even a bit, not even at all). It was odd that the traces of Lucius Malfoy she saw in his son could be so physically similar and yet mould themselves into someone far less malicious, far less dark.

That was the crux of it, wasn't it? Her optimism regarding the younger Malfoy sprang from the fact that she never truly believed him to be his father. He'd been a bully, yes, but he'd never been evil, and where there was absence of evil, surely there was room for good.

Twenty minutes later, Malfoy was giving her an impatient look and drumming his fingers on the table, which was incredibly annoying because his fingers had begun this whole thing in the first place.

"What thing?" said Malfoy. Hermione thought she might actually throw up this time because she really had no idea as to how much of her internal monologue had been made external.

"What?" she asked, envisioning herself back on the high seas, her thoughts twisting together, tangling in a mess of jumbled seaweed. Maybe if she acted nonchalant, he'd drop it, leave her alone long enough for her to drown in her own misery in peace.

But this was Malfoy. He wasn't exactly the type to let things drop.

"You said — well, the first part was too quiet for me to hear, but then you said that my fingers had started this whole thing in the first place." He moved close enough for her to smell the apple on his breath. "What thing?"

"My inability to concentrate," she snapped, never having been more grateful for her quick wit. She snatched up the parchment and quill, capped the ink bottle, and stomped over to her bed in a way that Malfoy couldn't mistake for anything other than a request for solitude.

"Testy," she heard him murmur, right before she slammed the door shut.

Though she no longer had to endure Malfoy's presence, now the silence was back, which meant her thoughts would be on overdrive. And those thoughts could potentially be about Malfoy.

Piano fingers. Blue flecks. Green apples.

Merlin, she needed to get out of here.

Apparently, the same idea occurred to Malfoy because she saw him slip out of the door of the makeshift flat just as she cracked open the one to the bedroom she shared with Ginny.

That morning, Harry had mentioned something about hitting the Quidditch pitch with Ginny and Ron so they wouldn't "get rusty" during their absence from reality, so Hermione headed that way after carefully counting to one hundred. She walked with a purpose, like she was on the verge of being late to Defence Against the Dark Arts class, because being left with her thoughts was growing more uncomfortable by the second.

"Al! Hey, wait up!" Hermione turned around when she heard Hugo's voice, only to find herself in front of Harry's younger son, the one that had previously been nameless. Al... She knew Harry well enough to suspect that it was short for Albus; after all, Harry grew up practically worshipping the man he saw as a grandfather.

Al gave Hugo a friendly nod in greeting, and their strides aligned as they walked practically shoulder to shoulder. It was almost uncanny how much they resembled Harry and Ron, and Hermione couldn't help but smile.

"Anything interesting happen in Potions?" asked Hugo.

Al shrugged.

"Figures," said Hugo. "That class is so boring. But you know what isn't boring?"

Again staying mute, Al quirked an eyebrow in lieu of asking aloud.

"Quidditch! Don't tell me you forgot we had practice," said Hugo, lightly shoving his shoulder against the dark haired boy's, who then drew his eyebrows together as if to say "fat chance." "Right," Hugo continued. "Aunt Ginny would Bat Bogey you if you ever missed it."

Aunt Ginny... Ginny would be Hugo's aunt regardless, but if the way Harry looked at the redhead was any indication, Hermione could see the strong possibility that the two had ended up together. Upon realising that Harry and Ginny would no doubt be curious as to the origins of her suspicions, Hermione whipped out a piece of parchment and a writing utensil from the bag she'd thought to bring and hastily recorded the dialogue she'd overheard thus far.

Al laughed and nodded in agreement to Hugo's joke, and Hermione wondered if he was always this quiet, if the night in Gryffindor had been some sort of personality anomaly. Perhaps he just had a sore throat today.

"Is she covering the Cannons match for _The Prophet_ next week?" Hugo asked.

His companion grimaced.

"Yeah, yeah. I know you don't like them, but they've got a decent squad this year, and the game is going to be intense!"

Al rolled his eyes as they left the castle, his feet lightly dragging on the grass as Hugo practically bounced with excitement.

"Alright, so maybe they're bloody awful, and I enjoy watching the Cannons because of a certain Seeker on the team, but still. Is your mum writing about the match or not?"

Hermione gasped. So Ginny was definitely Al and James's mother, which meant that she was also definitely married to Harry. Well, Dean Thomas would be disappointed...

Falling a few steps behind the boys, Hermione began walking at a leisurely pace with a smile on her face. She was happy for her friends; she really was. At the same time, she was the only one who didn't know anything about her future other than she was still breathing. For all she knew, she was living alone with Crookshanks Junior, quickly working her way toward "old hag" status. She was probably the kind of woman who talked to inanimate objects, grew a strange herb garden, and chased children off her property with a broomstick dusty from disuse. Refocusing her attention, Hermione quickened her pace to catch up with the two first years.

"Sweet! So she can get me Florence's autograph?" asked Hugo, his eyes glowing. "You're still her favourite child, aren't you? Owl her!"

At Al's prolonged muteness, Hugo began poking him in the side.

"Owl her! Owl her! Owl her!"

Al managed to slap Hugo's hands away and gave his cousin a warning glare.

"You're not as fun when you're managing your Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes intake, you know," said Hugo. "Last week in the common room, you were putting me in stitches with that Chatty Cathy stuff!"

Well, that explained why Al was so quiet today compared to the first night she'd seen him.

As they grew closer to the pitch, Hermione realised that Harry, Ron, and Ginny were most likely still there. Would their brooms appear to be soaring through the air without any occupants? Would the Quaffle and Bludgers the Room of Requirement had provided dart around the arena, seemingly moving of their own accord, or would they, like the Gryffindors themselves, be invisible to Hugo, Al, and the rest of the squad?

She wasn't going to wait to find out. Breaking into a sprint, Hermione set her sights on the faint blob of the Quidditch pitch, the one dark spot breaking up the brightness of the sun. As she ran, she couldn't help but picture this as part of her future — her, dashing across expanses of grass, twigs snapping and leaves crunching under her feet, heart pounding, pupils dilating. And there would be a group of Death Eaters on her heels, their wands acting as weapons of the utmost lethality, and she would see flashes of green and wonder when one would hit her.

At least she could take comfort in knowing that for twenty-one years, none of them would.

But now, what with Malfoy's new information, her life was once again a thing of uncertainty. Any or all of the Order members could be dead in a matter of months, days even. And the worst of it? She would have to learn of Harry's death, or Ron's, or Ginny's, or even her own, through other people, maybe even people who didn't know them at all, who were simply reporting the latest happenings in this strange world. Maybe she would hear about it from a Slytherin, a smug, little git, who told of it with beady eyes and smirking lips, who was bloody _ecstatic_ about it, about Harry, Ron, Ginny, or her being dead.

By the time she reached the pitch, her eyes were stinging (she knew why — it was fear spreading through her body like a disease, but she was going to blame it on the wind anyway), and her hands were shaking with the atypical strain she'd put her body through. Her lungs were fit to burst, her breaths ridiculously heavy as they shuddered through her entire frame, and she was half convinced her bones were vibrating.

"Harry!" Hermione called, voice cracking on the second syllable. "Ron! Ginny!" She swiped at her eyes, attempting to erase any evidence of tears, and strained to discern three human-like shapes hidden in the blue of the sky. "Hugo and Al — oh right, you don't know who Al is; well, I guess you do, but — oh never mind! The point is — the point is—"

"You okay there, Hermione? Don't injure yourself."

"Harry," she sighed in exasperation, seeing the bemused expression on her dark-haired friend, who held a broom and golden snitch in his hands. "Thank Merlin. Where were you? I was calling for you—"

"More like screaming your bloody head off," said Ron, grinning, his red face shining with sweat and adrenaline.

"Really, Hermione, I think you might exceed even _my_ vocal talent," added Ginny.

Ron raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, I don't think so, Gin." The siblings shared a laugh, Ginny swatting at her brother's shoulder.

"Whatever, Weasel."

Ron's expression dropped to one of horror. "Bloody hell. Malfoy's rubbing off on you."

"Hardly," said Ginny, laughing lightly. "He can come up with decent nicknames and still be a self-righteous git."

As Harry and Ron joined in Ginny's laughter, Hermione felt an unexpected urge to defend the source of their amusement. Malfoy may still be something of a prat — he likely always would be — but his arrogance was not what it once was; in the time they'd spent here, he'd become a man of uncertainty torn between beliefs, between two different families.

Between past and future.

As the severance grew, so likely did his certainty one way or the other. He would be left standing over an ever-growing cavern, his balance eventually broken as the two worlds forever drifted apart. Would he have chosen by then? Would he have taking a step in a single direction to avoid the inevitable abyss that awaited indecision? There were, of course, the pushes and pulls of each path to be considered — on one side, the whispered threats of Lucius, as cold and harsh as the breath of the Dementors that now guarded him; on the other side, Scorpius, a boy who was friends with James Potter and supported Muggle-borns.

And what about her? Was she pushing, pulling, causing him to budge even a fraction of a centimetre? He would have to change eventually — it was inevitable considering what _The Prophet_ had revealed...

"Hermione?"

"Sorry, what?" Hermione asked, placing her eyes on the green pair in front of her.

"I was asking if you found out anything interesting while we were gone," said Harry, and then Hermione felt even worse because yes, she'd figured out some serious information, and Harry wasn't going to like the vast majority of it. Where was she supposed to start? The part where the Death Eaters were reforming and out for revenge? The part where Harry, his children, his wife, and everyone he cared about could possibly be killed any time now? Or perhaps the part where she could not stop thinking about Malfoy, no matter how hard she tried?

No, definitely not there.

.

~#~

.

_7:12 P.M._

She'd tried to hide it. She really had. The parchment, though — the one she'd used to record Hugo and Al's conversation (well, Hugo's words and Al's gestures) — did not stay hidden long. With her luck, it was inevitable that someone would find it, scrunched up as it was in an empty can of tomato paste in the pantry.

She'd been _so_ proud of that hiding spot, too.

Thank Merlin for small mercies though, that it was Ginny who found it and not Ron, or worse, Malfoy. Instead it was Ginny, who took it upon herself to make dinner — spaghetti (Hermione's bloody horrid luck flaring up again). Hermione pleaded with her to pick something else, anything else, as there was no time to hide the parchment again, which only made Ginny all the more adamant about making her ridiculously complicated spaghetti dish.

Ginny then managed to push Hermione, who was once again protesting, out of the kitchen in an eerie interpretation of Mrs Weasley at the Burrow.

So Hermione paced, chewed her lip, paced some more, and waited for Ginny to drag her somewhere private to yell at her.

Ginny didn't disappoint.

Within a matter of minutes, Hermione's arm sported ugly, purple crescent moons where Ginny's fingernails had sunk into her flesh. Her back was rigid where she stood against the wall in the seventh floor corridor, and Hermione tasted warm metal in her mouth and knew that she'd ripped through the skin of her bottom lip with her teeth.

"Really, Hermione?" Ginny hissed, her eyes flashing, as she held up the roll of parchment and flung it in Hermione's face in accusation. "You tried to hide this from me?"

"It wasn't a good time," Hermione said pathetically, sucking on her bottom lip between sentences. "I was a bit out of my mind at the time, and I didn't want to—"

"What? Tell me that I'm alive? In case you hadn't noticed, I was the only one who hadn't heard a single thing about themselves! I was considering that I might be dead, and you—" Ginny broke off, an unbecoming shade of red colouring her cheeks. Her eyes filled with tears, and she covered her mouth with her hand to partially conceal a sob.

Oh, God, _Ginny_. Wasn't this just perfect? Hermione was so busy moaning and groaning about cats and herb gardens and dusty broomsticks that she hadn't even realised that Ginny didn't know anything at all. The guilt sunk into her stomach immediately, settling in about as comfortably as concrete.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione said, her voice still containing notes of feeble misery. "You're completely right. I — I'm a rubbish friend."

Ginny pursed her lips, and Hermione dropped her head, waiting for Ginny's voice to raise in pitch and volume, waiting for the bat-shaped bogeys to flap out of Ginny's wand and scratch her face to ribbons. Except neither of those things happened, and when Hermione looked up, Ginny was _smiling, _her smile so wide it was almost creepy.

"Ginny?"

"I was just thinking," said Ginny, "about when Harry saved my life in the Chamber of Secrets, all sweet and brave and strong. I was writing _Mrs Ginny Potter_ in my diary for...Merlin, I don't even want to admit how long. Years." She laughed, the sound like a bell tinkling in the corridor. "And I waited for him to notice me, but by the end of last year, I told myself it was time to give up, get into a real relationship instead of obsessing about one in my head. Guess I should've just gone ahead and planted one on him instead, huh?"

"Come again?"

"Keep up, Hermione! Harry — I should have given him a nice, long snog instead of waiting for him to make a move," said Ginny, shaking her head. "Girls don't have to wait for guys anymore! This is 1996! I mean—" Ginny broke off and grinned, most likely at the absurdity of it all, that they weren't in 1996, not even within two decades of it. "Well, whatever year it is, I'm sure feminism is alive, and hopefully it's thriving."

"You and Harry, and you — _plant one on him_?_ Feminism_?" Hermione's brain felt like it was sizzling, and she barely managed to get those words out. Ginny was talking like she'd been told what McGonagall was teaching in Transfiguration that day, not like she'd discovered the identity of her future husband. Maybe it was different because she knew him already, because it was Harry, and really, who wouldn't want to marry someone like Harry? Even the faults that got him in trouble were sometimes admirable — his unflinching optimism, blind trust, steadfast determination — all of it.

"It's Harry, Hermione. Harry," Ginny repeated, confirming Hermione's theory. She said his name like it was an answer, a promise, and a declaration all in one, like _Harry_ was all of those things. Hermione waited for her to say more, for Ginny to explain how she could infuse so much beauty into a single word, but she didn't.

At midnight, Hermione was still awake. Dinner had been relatively normal (no Malfoy, semi-pleasant conversation, Ron sticking noodles up his nose), except for the way Ginny would sneak a glance at Harry every now and again from behind a fork twirled with spaghetti. And every glance was like her "_Harry_."

Hermione couldn't help but pick at her nails, tear apart her already-split ends, and reopen the cut on her bottom lip because what if...What if despite all of her knowledge, she could never learn what Ginny inherently seemed to know?

When Hermione went to bed, she'd hoped that sleep would catch her body quickly, smother her thoughts like the thick blanket covering her body.

Instead, she was awake, so she thought. She thought about Ginny and Harry and James and Al and Hugo and Lavender and Ron, which led to Quidditch and fast brooms and dusty brooms and old hags and ginger cats and gardens and aching loneliness and newspaper crosswords and The Daily Prophet and war memorials and Malfoy.

And he was the last thing she thought of before sleep finally chased her down.

* * *

**a/n:** Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I hope this one was enjoyable for you - most of my writing time is between midnight and 3 A.M. at this point, so I really have no idea what I've written until I read over it the next morning. The process can get problematic, but at least it's getting done, right?

Please R&R!

xx Cam


	9. Singe

**IX**

**Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot**

**That it do singe yourself.**

**—Henry VIII**

_October 19th, 2017 2:06 P.M._

"So shall I start calling you Mr Lavender Brown, then?"

"Shut up, Ferret Face."

Draco shrugged his shoulders. "Simple question. Personally, I feel Weasel and Ferret are getting a bit stale, but if you're fine with them—"

"Is that supposed to be funny? Listen, if you think that we're going to be mates because of what was in the Prophet—"

Draco cut him off right there. This was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid — Weasley assuming that Draco wanted friendship from him just because of that bloody article. As if Draco would ever want anything from a Weasley — especially this Weasley, who was perhaps the most incompetent and idiotic of all of them. "Please, Mr _Brown_, I would rather spend time with your wife, and that's saying something."

"Hey—"

"In fact, I'd rather spend time with Longbottom and Lovegood. _Together_," Draco said, his tone patronising. "I assure you that my hatred for you is still very much intact."

Weasley sucked in a breath as if to yell, his cheeks bright red, but let it out in a sigh. "Alright. Good."

"Great."

It had been like this for much of the day — Weasley clearly thought that Draco now held some sort of perverse desire for an Order buddy, and while Draco was doing his best to get the redhead to bugger off, thus far he'd been unsuccessful. Unfortunately, he was also loathe to leave the Room of Requirement. It was so cold outside that the icy wind was filtering into the school by means of the cracks in the stonework, and Draco's earlier attempt to enjoy the snow had resulted in a miserable failure (suffice it to say that he hadn't seen a spot of black ice, and it had taken ages to get the snow out of places where snow should never go).

The one positive thing to come out of the morning was the lack of any more news — Draco was traumatised enough by the information he'd already received and had no intention of gaining any intel for the rest of the day. Considering they had no plans for escaping this mindfuck, he figured one day of semi-sanity would be beneficial to his admittedly fragile mental health, even if he had to spend said day with Pothead and the Weasel. Also positive was the absence of Granger and the Weaselette, who were busy with another trip to the library, which would of course be unsuccessful if his luck in this dimension was anything to go by.

Weasley was watching the door again.

Draco wondered whether he did it consciously — the watching for Granger. Once she reached his line of vision, he hardly looked at her at all, but he reminded Draco of a lost puppy whenever she left the room. A lost, unintelligent, drooling puppy with very unfortunate colouring.

Draco decided it bothered him.

"Oi! Weasel," he said, tossing a pillow to get the redhead's attention.

"What is it now, Malfoy?"

"If you're going to marry Brown, I'd advise you to stop staring at Granger like she's going to be Mrs Weasley," he said, keeping his tone as casual as possible. It's not like he actually cared that it was Granger — Weasley with a schoolgirl crush on anyone would be repulsive to watch. The fact that it was _her_ just made it a doubly horrifying situation for an innocent, helpless spectator such as himself. Really, Draco was looking out for his own well-being here; it was simply a preventative measure against nausea and vast discomfort.

Apparently Weasley did not interpret his question the same way.

"Why do you care if I look at Hermione? She's my friend — I'm allowed to look at her," he snapped, his face turning red.

"My, someone's a little defensive."

"Yeah, well someone's a little too interested."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "It was one comment; however, if it's any comfort, I now greatly regret approaching the subject."

"Oh come off it, Malfoy. I know you two were here alone for hours yesterday."

"Are you insinuating—" Draco broke off in a dark bout of sarcastic laughter, unsure whether he could even make it through his next question without losing his breath. "Are you insinuating that I am fucking _Granger_?"

Draco heard Potter cough loudly from his place by the fireplace. Weasley's minuscule smirk dropped completely, and his face went brick red. "I'm just saying you should watch the way _you_ look at her, too. I guess it doesn't really matter though considering she thinks you're the scum of the earth."

Draco's laughter died away, and his fingers itched to curl into fists, though he wasn't quite sure why. "She thinks _I_ am the scum of the earth, does she?"

"If you call her a Mudblood again, Malfoy, I swear—"

Draco was surprised to realise that the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. "On the contrary, Weasley, I was referring to you. Tell me, are you still planning to take over as gamekeeper for that oversized oaf? Because you'll be waiting over twenty years—"

"Enough!" Potter finally spoke, one hand rubbing his forehead as the other grabbed the front of Weasley's robes. Potter pulled the black fabric toward him, and with a grunt, Weasley followed his motion, stumbling a few steps away from Draco.

"Never thought you would do anything useful, Potter, but I truly appreciate this small gesture of kindness," Draco said, smirking. "He smells like piss and poverty, neither of which I find particularly appealing."

"Shut up, you stupid fuck!"

Potter sighed and resumed massaging his forehead with one hand, all whilst clutching Weasley's robe so tightly his fingers turned white. "Ron, just calm down."

"Calm down? CALM DOWN?" It was amusing to watch them pace around the room — as soon as Weasley took a step, Potter would be forced to follow in order to maintain his grip. Whenever they came within a few feet of Draco, Potter tugged his companion in the opposite direction, but other than that, he simply allowed Weasley to drag him in any direction he pleased.

"You heard the Boy-Who-Cried," said Draco, nonchalantly leaning against the kitchen counter. "Clearly he's the one you should be taking emotional and behavioural advice from."

The next few events happened so quickly that Draco couldn't distinguish when one ended and another began. At some point, Potter must have released Weasley because Draco found himself on the floor with Weasley leaning over him, a mad grin on his face. Draco's head already pounded from the impact of hitting the ground, and his diaphragm felt as if it were sagging under Weasley's weight, but he was hardly going to grant either of the Gryffindors the satisfaction of conceding before the fight had truly begun.

"I will give you one chance to get off me, Weasley. One," said Draco, annunciating each word as crisply and deliberately as his lungs would allow.

"Fat chance, Malfoy!" said Weasley, his smile becoming additionally more manic by the second. He raised his arm behind his head and swung, and Draco could do nothing more than turn his head slightly to the side in an attempt to dodge the blow.

He could taste the blood almost instantly.

The raging throb in his head was gentle compared to the blow to his jaw, the ache of which seemed to build and burst before spreading all the way to his toes. His vision was blurry, but he could see spots of red and wondered whether it was blood on the floor or an unfocused view of Weasley's hair and Gryffindor robes.

Someone groaned loudly, a high-pitched keen, and it took Draco a moment to realise that the noise came from him — he sounded like a little boy experiencing the first modicum of pain of the tonnes to come, tonnes that would one day weigh him down like a stone in his pocket.

_Pathetic._

There was a muggle who committed suicide like that once, wasn't there? She'd found the heaviest stone she could lift, stuffed it into her coat pocket, and walked straight into the river...

He wondered if she'd regretted it as she sunk down, down, down. He wondered if she'd tried to undo what her pain had done, if she'd allowed her fingers to stretch toward the light glimmering on the surface of the water even as her feet touched its mud-covered floor. He wondered what had been so unbearable that she'd let the current carry her to the deepest depths of death rather than going on, facing the next morning.

_Get up._

Draco would face the next morning. That was never the question — firstly, he quite liked living, and secondly, suicide took a certain kind of courage Draco knew he would never possess — no, the question was that of the stone. What was the pain that weighed him down so much in his current life that he would one day rip the stone free of his pocket? What was it that caused him to claw at the swirling surface of the water, choking on air as he finally broke it? Was it the Dark Lord?

Was it his father?

Even thinking the question felt like betrayal, but Draco found himself imagining a life without darkness anyway, a life without the caustic insults of his family members, the looming threat of his master, and the expectation of both of them that he would fill himself with this darkness, welcome it with open arms even.

A life in which he wouldn't have to murder an innocent old man (freedom; light was freedom).

_Fight back._

He had to admit it: Weasley could throw a punch.

Draco could tell, now, that the red he saw was splashes of blood, but he couldn't lift his hands, couldn't move because he was pinned to the ground. He thought he heard the door of the Room of Requirement open, and an indistinct voice sounded across the room.

"What is going on here?"

A shuffling of feet reached Draco's ears. A gasp. Two.

"What did you do? MOVE!"

He eagerly sucked in air in relief as Weasley's weight left his chest. It only took a moment before her face swam in front of his, glimmering like he was in the river and she was the sun reaching through its depths to provide the smallest amount of warmth, to keep the water's inhabitants alive.

"Malfoy!" He felt a nervous hand on his shoulder, a gentle shake. "Malfoy? Can you hear me? I need to do some healing spells."

"Just don't try to fix my teeth, alright?" Draco managed to say, his voice hoarse, and Granger laughed lightly.

"I won't. I promise." She leaned in closer, close enough that he could have counted her freckles if he'd wanted to. He also could have sworn her eyes were glassy with tears, but that was probably either a trick of the light or his faulty vision. "Other features might need work, though," she continued, "and I'm certain I could make an excellent replica of Snape's nose."

He smirked slightly as she pulled out her wand and began mending his injuries.

"What were you thinking, Ronald?" she snapped, her eyes not leaving Draco's face as she worked.

"You should have heard what he was saying! It was—"

"What he was _saying_? You mean to tell me that you slammed him to the ground and then caused further injury because you couldn't take a couple of crude insults?"

"But Hermione—"

"But nothing! I am _ashamed_ of you, and you know better than to pull this type of—"

"He was talking about you!" At this outburst from Weasley, Granger's motions ceased, her wide eyes meeting Draco's in surprise.

"He what?" she asked, turning back to Weasley. Before he could answer, Draco began to speak — he couldn't risk Granger stopping the healing process. He was already feeling much improved, and he would not let Weasley ruin anything else today.

"It was nothing bad," he said quickly as Weasley snorted behind him. "Shocking, I know, but I had plenty of material from Weaselbee to keep me busy."

"Oh, right," said Granger softly, resuming waving her wand. "Well, I'm sure that by the end of the day, I'll have provided you with plenty of things you can use to ridicule me about."

"Undoubtedly," he agreed, his voice just as quiet.

"There. I'm finished." She stood, brushing off her robes and mumbling a quick spell to clean up the spilled blood. Draco slowly sat up but remained in the same spot, just watching her. It was odd. She hadn't even hesitated before running over to help him, to heal him even. And had she really reprimanded Weasley for punching him in the face? He'd assumed she'd wanted to do that herself for the past few days.

His father, his aunt, his Hogwarts house — all three pandered to the idea of compassion as a manifestation of human weakness, but he was finding the idea difficult to reconcile with the person he knew Granger to be.

"Granger," he called, just as she turned her back.

"Yes?"

"Thank you." She didn't have to turn around for him to see the small smile that appeared on her face, and for some inexplicable reason, that smile made him feel a little less like he was drowning.

.

~#~

.

2:55 P.M.

As she left the room, Hermione could feel her breath hitch, and she stopped to lean against the wall at the top of the stairs. Her reaction had been ridiculous, mortifying even, and yet here she stood, her head in her hands and her breathing laboured as she pictured Malfoy's blood pooling on the floor, the black rose of a bruise blooming across his pale skin.

"Hermione?"

Her head snapped up as she heard Ron's voice.

"Ron! You startled me!"

"Sorry," he said, looking down at his hands, which were clasped in front of his stomach. "I was, uh, hoping we could talk."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "About?"

"Me. Well," he said, laughing a little. "You and me. Both of us, really."

"I don't understand. What are you—"

"How could we not end up together?" he blurted. "How is it possible that I could get married to someone else? I mean—" Ron ran his hands through his hair, his eyes still on the floor. "Bloody hell. I'm rubbish at this—"

"Ron, stop! Just — just stop!" Hermione interjected, but Ron hardly appeared to register that she'd spoken.

"I mean, we've always expected it, haven't we? That I'll get with you eventually, and we'll start a family—"

"This is — I don't even know what you think this is accomplishing," Hermione said, her voice much louder to ensure that Ron stopped talking. Her hands shook in a mix of sadness and fury, and she lifted her eyes to the ceiling so Ron wouldn't see her blinking away tears. Unbelievable. _This_ was what she'd been waiting for since third year? _This_ was what everything — the stolen glances, the burning in her cheeks, the fluttering in her stomach, the sobbing alone in the bathroom, oh God, the sobbing — this was what everything got her? A pathetic excuse for a declaration of affection and an assumption that they would share a future when clearly her present self wasn't good enough. Her voice grew in volume even further as she turned back to face him. "Do you even _hear_ the words coming out of your mouth?" yelled Hermione. "You'll get with me _eventually_, like I'm some sort of back-up plan, some bint on the side for when you're finally either man enough or bored enough to ask me out?"

"NO! That's not what I—"

"But it is, Ron! It is _exactly_ what you are saying!"

"I would never call you a bint!"

Hermione shook her head. "I was not talking about your literal choice in vocabulary, Ronald, just the meaning behind it," she said, suddenly exhausted. Her body felt about a million years old and her heart even older.

He didn't get it. He never had.

"I deserve more than this," said Hermione, her voice as low as the blasts of wind outside. "I deserve more than being someone's second, or third, or God forbid, last choice."

"I'm not good enough for you then? Is that it?"

"No, that's not it." She sucked in a deep breath. How should she say this? How could she say this without breaking her own heart a little bit too, without the pieces of her that grew together with Ron being ripped away by the roots?

"Please, Hermione, if there's something you want me to say or do, I'll do it; I swear—"

"I don't want you to have to ask me what to say or do," she said quietly, meeting his light blue eyes. "I want you to say it. I want you to do it. I want _you_ to want to and not as a last resort — I'm so tired of being your last resort."

Ron looked crestfallen. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying we're not supposed to be together. It's obviously not supposed to happen. I—" Hermione was crying in earnest now, which she couldn't internally berate herself for — she was cutting away portions of the hopes and dreams she'd held for years, and it felt like cutting away an extension of herself. She wasn't naive enough to believe that she would be the same person without having had Ron in her life, and it made it doubly hard to say the words she was saying now. "I'm sorry, Ron, but this isn't what love and happiness look like. Not for either of us, now or in the future."

Ron took a few steps away from her, heading back to the Room of Requirement. "I...I understand. You're always right, and I guess you are now too," he said, his words scratchy and his eyes red and watery. "And I'm sure I'll accept it one day. I just... I thought..."

"I know. I know. So did I."

* * *

**a/n: **Sorry Ronmione shippers (if there are any of you here). I honestly see so many problems with that relationship, and while Hermione and Ron are of course great friends, I don't believe it could work out romantically between them, which I hopefully highlighted with the conversation I think they very much needed to have.

Any thoughts on the chap? I hope you liked it, and I am so, so sorry it has been so long since my last update! I graduated, sang in my cousin's wedding, went to the beach, and started a new job, all in the span of a couple of weeks. It's been insane to say the least, but hopefully I'll be quicker next time! :))

xx Cam


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